•: 

C~T/~"    C 

~7yX~ 

The  Woodhouse 
Correspondence 


By 

George 

W. 

E. 

Russell 

and 

Edith   Sic 

hel 

1 

"  As  for  Fitz-Heron,  he  is  so  very  selfish, 
he    alwavs    wants  his    letters    answered." 

Lord  Beaconsfield,  Sybil. 


New  York 
Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 


MCMIV 


Published  February,   1904 


BURR   HUNTING   HOUSE 
NEW    YORK 


TO 

THE  ESTHETIC 

THE  MAGNETIC 

AND  THE  SPLENETIC 

THESE  STUDIES  IN 

IDIOSYNCRASY 

ARE  RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED 


LAMMAS    DAY 
1903 


667118 


FOREWORD 

IN  order  to  a  clear  apprehension  of  the  ensuing 
Correspondence,   it   may   be   well   to   premise 
that  Mr.  Algernon  Wentworth-Woodhouse  is 
neither  related  to  the  Wentworths  of  Rocking- 
ham, nor  (in  spite  of  persistent  confusions  between  the 
two  families)  to  the  Woodhouses  of  Hartfield. 

For  Mr.  Woodhouse's  paternal  descent  the  curious 
reader  is  referred  to  Burke's  "Landed  Gentry,"  vol. 
II.  His  mother  was  Lady  Laura  Fitzwigan,  daugh- 
ter of  the  3d  Earl  of  Wiganthorpe.  He  was  educated 
at  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  where  he  obtained  a  Third 
Class  in  the  Final  Classical  School,  and  formed  the 
only  friendship  of  his  life.  (The  friend's  name  was 
William  Henry  Thompson,  and,  after  taking  his 
degree,  he  entered  the  Civil  Service. ) 

Algernon  Woodhouse  was  born  the  second  son ;  but, 


FOREWORD 

owing  to  his  eldest  brother's  death  (r.p.),  he  succeeded 
to  the  family  estates  in  Norfolk  and  Yorkshire. 

Ilis  younger  brother,  George,  took  Holy  Orders, 
married,  and  died  early,  leaving  a  family.  Of  the 
sisters,  two  remained  unmarried,  while  the  third,  who 
married  Mr.  Andrew  Murray  (see  Burke's  "Peerage," 
Atlioll,  Duke  of;  Colls:)  was  left  a  widow,  with  one 
son,  Francis  Woodhouse  Murray,  and  did  not  long 
survive  her  husband. 


[vi] 


CHAPTER    I 


THE    WOODHOUSE 
CORRESPONDENCE 

CHAPTER  I 

To  Algernon  Went worth-Woodho use,  Esq., 
The  Hall,  Feversham-sur-Strand. 

49B  Anhalt-Dessau  Gardens,  Campden  Hill, 

My  Birthday. 

MY  DEAR  GODFATHER,— When  you 
came  to  see  us  a  year  ago,  you  said  that 
if  ever  I  was  in  difficulties  I  might 
write  to  you.  You  may  not  recall  the 
fact,  for  your  existence  is  a  full  one.  But  with  me 
it  is  far  otherwise.  I  had  not  seen  you  since  I  was 
a  little  girl,  and  till  I  met  you  I  did  not  know  what 
true  Sympathy  was. 

And  now,  on  my  twenty-fourth  birthday,  the  mo- 
ment you  foresaw  has  arrived.  A  Crisis  in  my  life 
has  come,  and  I  have  decided  to  leave  home  and  live 

[3] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

by  myself.  My  home  circle  stifles  me;  my  Spirit 
demands  solitude,  and,  if  I  am  to  develop  myself,  I 
must  have  it.  It  is  on  this  point  that  I  need  your 
advice.  I  can  turn  to  no  one  else.  You  are  my 
father's  oldest  friend  and,  besides  that,  you  have  long 
known  all  the  Thompsons,  though,  with  the  exception 
of  myself,  there  is  really  very  little  to  know.  I  can- 
not help  realising  this,  for  I  am  the  only  Thompson 
who  has  the  Artistic  Temperament.  Poor  papa,  as 
you  are  aware,  still  insists  on  going  daily  to  his  Gov- 
ernment office  and  red  tape  still  satisfies  him.  Far 
be  it  from  me  to  blame  him — it  is  the  Groove  to  which 
he  has  grown  accustomed.  My  mother,  as  you  will 
also  remember,  leads  the  life  of  a  mere  invalid,  a  slave 
to  rheumatism.  For  this,  too,  I  can  make  allowances. 
It  needs  a  strong  soul  to  dominate  the  body,  and  Will- 
power is  uncommon  in  her  generation.  The  rest  of 
my  family,  four  brothers  and  two  younger  sisters,  are 
not  at  all  gifted,  and  they  neither  understand  me  nor 
appreciate  my  aims.  So  I  am  very,  very  Lonely.  I 
do  not  in  the  least  know  how  I  came  by  my  arti>tic- 

[+i 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

temperament.  I  only  know  that  it  is  there,  that  I 
suffer  from  all  its  symptoms.  I  am  a  prey  to  nervous 
depression ;  I  get  exhausted  directly  I  am  opposed ; 
I  cannot  take  my  meals  with  other  people;  and  I  am 
writing  a  Realistic  Novel  which  centres  round  the 
Education  Bill.  It  is  for  this  that  I  exist,  and  to 
this  that  I  consecrate  my  Powers.  Yet  my  relations 
will  not  show  me  any  sympathy,  or  make  it  possible 
for  me  to  live  at  home. 

It  stands  to  reason  that  to  develop  myself  I  must 
have  room;  that  if  I  am  to  create  there  must  be  Silence 
in  my  Soul  and  plenty  of  books  at  hand.  I  am  con- 
scious that  I  have  many  faults,  but  I  think  I  may 
safely  affirm  that  selfishness  is  not  one  of  them.  Yet 
my  family,  from  pure  prejudice,  refuse  me  the  sim- 
plest request;  they  will  not  even  allow  me  the  use  of 
the  drawing-room  between  10  and  3,  or,  again,  be- 
tween 8.30  and  lip.  m.,  when  I  find  my  brain  moves 
the  most  quickly.  And  yet  there  is  no  reason  against 
it.  My  mother  has  quite  a  large  bedroom ;  my  father 
has  made  a  study  of  his  dressing-room,  and  there  is 

[5] 


THE    vVOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

plenty  of  space  for  my  youngest  brother  to  prepare 
his  lessons  there.  Surely  the  five  others  need  not  make 
difficulties  about  Bitting  in  the  dining-room,  where  the 
laying  of  meals  does  not  take  more  than  twenty  min- 
utes. It  i>  true  that  the  piano  is  in  the  drawing-room, 
but  the  one  of  my  Bisters  who  plays  will  never  do  any- 
thing for  Art — anything,  I  mean,  that  justifies  Ehe 
sacrifice  of  my  Work.  As  for  her  singing-class  for 
shop-girls,  which  Bhe  used  to  have  once  a  week,  we  all 
have  to  learn  that  charity  begins  at  home. 

Mv  second  motive  in  Leaving  home — for  I  have  a 
second  motive — is  to  see  Life.  Much  can  be  done,  I 
am  >ure,  by  reading — and  I  have  read,  deeply,  for  my 
Novel.  I  have  gone  through  Zola  and  a  good  deal  of 
Kant  and  three  or  four  Bluebooks  on  Secondary  Edu- 
cation. But  reading  is  not  all.  My  hook  is  B  sub- 
versive book,  and,  as  this  is  bo,  I  must  know  what  I 
am  subverting.  I  must  also  study  Passion.  And  how 
can  these  end-  he  obtained  except  by  watching  Life — 
the  life  of  Society  by  day,  the  life  of  music-halls  and 

of  public-houses  by   night?      But   my   poor   father  ob- 

[6] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

jects  to  my  researches,  and  so — since  I  fight  for  Truth 
— it  seems  best  to  quit  his  house.  I  think  of  taking  a 
small  flat  and  of  becoming  a  typewriter  for  my  liveli- 
hood. Of  course,  to  begin  with,  this  will  not  leave  me 
anjT  time  for  my  Novel,  but  then  I  shall  be  seeing  Life 
at  the  Polytechnic  classes. 

Will  you  most  kindly  give  me  your  candid  opinion 
on  the  course  I  should  pursue?  Only  please  do  not  try 
to  persuade  me  to  go  on  living  at  home.  You,  who 
are  so  wise,  will  perhaps  be  able  to  explain  why  one's 
relations  are  always  much  more  irritating  than  any- 
body else,  and  why  their  temper  is  allowed  to  ruin 
domestic  happiness.  Pray  forgive  me  for  this  long, 
but  I  hope  not  uninteresting,  letter.  I  shall  be  hun- 
gry for  your  answer. — Yours  in  all  sincerity. 

Elaine  Thompson. 

My  Novel  is  to  be  called  "The  Woof-Warp."  I 
should  like  to  consult  you  as  to  whether  Chapter  L.  is 
too  strong  to  be  left  in. 


[7] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


The  Hall,   Feversham-sur-Strand, 
August  28//1,   1902. 

Deai  Miss  Elaine, — Your  letter  touches  and  grati- 
fies me.  Would  that  I  could  reply  to  it  more  ade- 
quately. Let  me  say  at  the  outset  that  I  fully  recog- 
nise your  right  to  demand  any  assistance  which  it  is  in 
my  power  to  give.  Your  father  and  I  were  close 
friends  at  Balliol.  I  recall  with  much  pleasure  the 
walks  which  we  used  to  take  over  Shotover  and  by  the 
Upper  River,  discussing  The  Unconditioned.  The 
late  Master  of  Balliol — a  man,  in  my  judgment, 
greatly  overrated  (his  name  was  Jowett ;  you  may  have 
heard  your  father  mention  it) — went  so  far  as  to  say 
that  if  we  had  talked  less  about  The  Unconditioned 
and  read  more  Thucydides  we  might  have  done  better 
in  the  schools  (or  final  examination).  This  is  possibly 
the  case,  for  neither  of  us,  I  think  I  may  Bay,  W08  de- 
ficient  in  intelligence.     But  the  memory  of  that  com- 

[«1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

munion  of  mind  with  mind  is  still  precious  to  me ;  and 
I  welcomed  it  as  the  sign  of  a  reciprocal  sentiment  on 
your  father's  part  when  he  asked  me  to  be  your  god- 
father. With  respect  to  the  nature  and  claims  of  the 
sponsorial  office,  I  take  no  extreme  or  mediaeval  view; 
but  I  am  free  to  confess  that  I  have  never  regarded 
its  obligations  as  adequately  discharged  by  the  con- 
ventional gift  of  a  silver  mug,  or  a  case  of  forks  and 
spoons.  Such  tokens  of  goodwill  always  appear  to  me 
to  jar  painfully  on  solemn  associations,  and  you  will 
have  observed  that,  in  your  case,  I  testified  my  interest 
by  what  I  thought  a  more  suitable  medium — a  copy  of 
"Guesses  at  Truth,"  a  book  to  which  I  owe  much  in 
the  way  of  moral  and  intellectual  stimulus. 

The  experience  of  life  has  taught  me  that,  in  coun- 
selling a  friend,  simplicity,  directness,  and  the  avoid- 
ance of  ambiguity  are  points  greatly  to  be  cultivated. 
I  therefore  say,  in  the  very  forefront  of  my  reply, 
that,  although  I  perfectly  understand  your  wish  to 
leave  home,  it  is  quite  impossible  for  me  to  receive 
you  here.      Had  my  dear  wife  been  spared,  things 

[9] 


Tin:  woodhouse  correspondence 

might  have  worn  a  different  complexion;  but  since 
her  (hath  I  have  largely  reduced  my  establishment, 
and  have,  indeed)  >hut  up  the  greater  part  of  the 
house.  I  do  not  think  you  have  ever  been  here,  so  I 
may  as  well  explain  that  all  the  principal  apartments 
face  due  north,  and  I  fear  that  the  bronchial  asthma 
and  chronic  congestion  of  the  lung  which  so  embit- 
tered my  loved  one's  last  days  may  have  been  due  to 
the  fact  that  the  sun  could  never  visit  the  rooms  in 
which  she  lived.  Since  her  death  I  have  avoided  scenes 
so  fraught  with  painful  associations,  and  live  exclu- 
sively in  my  private  rooms  in  the  south  wing,  which, 
being  very  warm  and  sunny,  make  it  possible  for  me 
to  remain  (though  not  without  difficulty)  at  Fever- 
sham  during  the  winter  months.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances you  will  see  that  it  would  be  impossible  for 
me  to  invite  you  here,  and  I  have  the  less  hesi- 
tation in  intimating  the  impossibility  because, 
within  the  last  week,  I  have  been  obliged  to 
decline  the  offer  of  my  sisters  (who  are  getting  on  in 
life,  and  who  reside  habitually  at  Torquay)  to  spend 

[10] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

the  months  of  September  and  October  in  their  old 
home. 

That  your  excellent  father,  with  whom  I  once  wan- 
dered in  more  transcendental  fields,  should  find  ade- 
quate employment  and  interest  in  the  work  of  a  public 
office  is  a  gratifying  instance  of  that  beneficent  law 
of  nature — adaptation  to  environment.  It  is  not  un- 
likely that,  had  circumstances  compelled  me  to  work 
for  my  subsistence,  a  similar  fate  would  have  been 
mine.  But  an  income  derived  from  land  (and  my 
father's  judicious  investments  in  railway  stock)  have 
left  me  free  for  that  life  of  tranquil  observation  and 
reflection  to  which,  even  from  early  youth,  I  always 
aspired. 

The  due  limits  of  space  forbid  me  to  follow  you 
through  your  very  graphic  account  of  your  domestic 
arrangements,  the  size  and  number  of  your  rooms, 
and  the  routine  of  the  household.  Being  myself  free 
from  the  cares  of  a  family  (and  now,  alas !  a  widower), 
I  have  always  been  accustomed,  both  here  and  in  Port- 
land Place,  to  a  house  considerably  larger  than  I  re- 

["I 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

quire ;  and,  indeed,  I  have  found  that  the  unshared 
command  of  good-sized,  quiet,  and  well-lighted  rooms 
has  been  an  indispensable  condition  of  any  intellectual 
effort. 

But,  waving  all  these  merely  domestic  and  personal 
considerations,  we  are  reduced  to  the  bare  proposi- 
tion that  you  wish  to  leave  home,  and  that  for  two 
purposes:  (1)  that  you  may  write  your  novel  without 
interruption,  and  (2)  that  you  may,  to  use  your  own 
phrase,  "see  life."  On  the  preliminary  questions 
whether  you  are  qualified  to  write  a  novel,  and  whether, 
if  you  write  it,  you  are  more  likely  to  make  or  to  lose 
money  by  it,  as  you  do  not  ask  me,  I  forbear  to  express 
an  opinion.  I  understand  that  you  are  actually  en- 
gaged on  the  novel,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
with  the  examples  of  Miss  Austen,  Miss  Braddon,  Miss 
Broughton,  Mrs.  Ward,  and  Miss  Fowler  before  you, 
you  do  not  lack  the  justification  of  precedent.  The 
pecuniary  aspects  of  the  case  (as  you  no  doubt  very 
properly  feel)  can  be  most  suitably  discussed  with 
your  father.     Should  you  be  reduced  to  the  necessity. 

[12  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

always  salubrious  but  sometimes  difficult,  of  making 
your  own  living,  various  expedients  demand  considera- 
tion. 

1.  In  the  first  place,  there  is  the  course  which  you 
yourself  suggest,  of  becoming  a  professional  type- 
writer; and  I  will  say  at  once  that,  if  only  you  can 
make  it  pay  for  your  lodging,  board,  clothing,  and 
other  necessities,  no  objection  can  be  entertained  to 
it  on  an}'  social  or  conventional  score.  (My  dear  wife 
learnt  typewriting  in  her  later  years,  in  order  to  facili- 
tate my  correspondence,  and  Sir  William  Jenner 
always  believed  that  the  exertion  shortened  her  life.) 

2.  Another  expedient  would  be  to  ask  the  pub- 
lishers of  your  novel  to  pay  you  a  certain  sum  quar- 
terly on  account  till  the  work  is  finished.  As  I  do  not 
know  the  publishers,  or  the  nature  and  probable  suc- 
cess of  your  book,  I  cannot  recommend  this  course 
with  any  confidence. 

3.  A  young  lady  with  whose  family  I  was  ac- 
quainted, went  as  Companion  (without  salary)  to  two 
ladies,  not  young,  but   very   highly   connected,  who 

[13] 


THE  WOODHOUSE  CORRESPONDENCE 

lived  in  a  fiat  in  Victoria  Street.  One  of  them  \ 
blind:  tin-  other  deaf.  Mv  young  friend's  duty  was 
to  read  aloud  to  them,  and  the  only  drawback  to  her 
happiness  was  that,  if  she  read  loud  enough  for  the 
deaf  lady,  the  blind  one  rebuked  her  for  screaming; 
and  that,  if  >he  dropped  her  voice,  the  deaf  lady  ac- 
cused her  of  mumbling. 

4.  I  group  together  under  one  head  such  expedi- 
ents as  assisting  in  the  millinery  business,  a  photo- 
graphic studio,  or  a  teashop  in  Bond  Street.  I  am  told 
that  some  of  these  posts  are  very  fairly  paid  ;  and, 
when  once  you  have  broken  the  trammels  of  a  conven- 
tional  gentility,  I  do  not  apprehend  that  you  would 
have  much  difficulty  in  adapting  yourself  to  your  new 
>urroundings.  Whether  such  employments  would 
leave  you  adequate  time  for  your  literary  work  is  a 
question  which  you  must  judge  for  yourself.  But 
they  would  certainly  give  you  excellent  opportunities 
for  "seeing  life." 

So  much,  then,  in  the  way  of  practical  counsel.  To 
the  larger  and  more  abstract  question,  "why  one's  re- 

[14] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

lations  are  irritating,"  I  must  reply  in  a  later  letter. — 
Believe  me,  with  very  great  truth,  faithfully  yours, 
Algernon  Wextworth-Woodhouse. 

P.S. — When  I  have  had  the  advantage  of  seeing 
"The  Woof-Warp,"  I  shall  be  prepared  to  give  a 
judgment  on  Chapter  L.  But  I  must  warn  you  that 
in  these  matters  I  am  old-fashioned. — A.  W.-W. 


[15] 


CHAPTER    II 


CHAPTER  II 

Anhalt-Dessau  Gardens,   Campden   Hill, 

September  1st. 

MY  DEAR  GODFATHER,— Your  letter 
has  made  a  great  Peace  in  my  Soul.  I 
cannot  thank  you  enough  for  the  pene- 
trating delicacy  with  which  you  have 
understood  me.  I  see  with  what  insight — may  I  say 
genius? — you  have  unravelled  the  tangled  skein  of 
my  circumstances  and  motives,  and  with  what  indul- 
gence you  have  measured  the  limitations  of  my  family. 
And  I  feel  sure  now  that  you  will  stand  by  me  in  the 
struggle  that  is  to  come  with  them.  May  I  venture, 
in  my  gratitude,  to  send  you  this  little  sonnet,  which 
is  addressed  to  you,  and  expresses  my  feelings  better 
than  any  prose? — 

[19] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

TO    MV    GODFATHER,    A.    W.-W. 
In  Thanks  for  .  .  . 

Broken  am  I  upon  the  Wheel  of  Life, 

A  Cistern  of  strange  Forces — full  of  sap — 

But  thou  hast  acted  as  my  Water-tap, 
Cooling  my  Soul,  and  all  its  seething  strife. 
Sweet  are  the  drippings  of  thy  sympathy, 

Like  a  great  shadow  in  a  weary  land ; 
For  when  from  out  the  Wilderness  I  cry, 

Thou,  thou  alone,  hast  ears  to  understand. 
So  shall  I  conquer,  holding  by  thy  hand, 

Since  I  am  dowered  with  Love,  and  Fear,  and  Hate. 
It  is  the  Weak  who  sink;  the  Strong  command, 

For  Man  is  Man  and  master  of  his  fate, 
And  we  two — little  waves  upon  the  Strand — 

Will  foam  and  break  upon  the  Ultimate. 

Do  you  care  for  Words  worth,  I  wonder?  If  not, 
you  may  not  like  the  line  about  the  Water-tap.  But 
I  confess  that  I  adore  Wordsworth's  simplicity.  I 
have  always  formed  myself  half  on  Wordsworth  and 
half  on  Shelley;  but,  after  all,  however  small  one  may 

rao  i 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

be  beside  the   great,   one   is   in  the   end  purely   and 
simply  Oneself. 

And  this  brings  me  to  my  Novel.  The  kind  wish  to 
read  it  which  you  express  has  encouraged  me  (I  had 
been  deeply,  nervously  depressed  about  Chapter  L.), 
and  I  am  now  hurrying  to  complete  Book  III.  of  Vol. 
I.,  so  that  I  may  send  you  the  first  part  of  the  MS. 
I  have  not  offered  it  to  any  publisher  yet.  It  is  my 
first-fruits,  and  even  if  I  could  receive  some  portion 
of  the  pecuniary  remuneration  beforehand,  I  should 
refuse,  for  I  fear  that  it  would  check  the  flow  of  my 
ideas.  No  first  work  of  art  with  real  strength  in 
it  has  ever  succeeded  financially,  and  I  shall  not  mind 
sending  it  about  from  one  publisher  to  another.  For  I 
shall  remember  the  Brontes  and  keep  a  high 
heart.  As  to  the  professions  you  so  kindly  pro- 
pose to  me,  they  are,  unfortunately,  shut  to  me 
for  the  following  reasons.  I  could  not  possibly  assist 
in  any  millinery  business,  since,  belonging  as  I  do,  to 
the  Selborne  Society,  I  could  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  birds   and   feathers   considered   essential   in 

[21] 


Till;    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

trimming  hats:  besides  which,  I  am  willing  to  own 
that  the  needle  is  not  my  strongest  point.  And  a 
b  a-shop   is   equally,   I   fear,   against   my  principles 

which  wage  war  against  the  luxury  of  the  few.  These 
shops  are  the  Xests  of  Capitalists,  and  I  make  it  a  rule 
myself  never  to  enter  any  place  of  refreshment  except 
ih  (1  bread  shops.  In  these  I  often  take  tea  and 
at  the  same  time  study  the  patient,  ground-down  Life 
that  seeks  shelter  there.  As  to  being  a  "companion," 
I  know  you  will  understand  me  if  I  say  that  I  should 
hold  this  to  be  a  real  waste  of  my  Powers.  I  should 
not  object,  it  is  true,  to  be  reader  or  secretary  to  a 
man  of  letters,  and  if  you  should  hear  of  such  a  one 
I  would  certainly  consider  it ;  but  otherwise  I  should 
prefer  poverty  and  freedom.  I  could  never  ask  my 
father  for  any  help  and,  except  for  the  dress-allow- 
ance which  I  get  from  my  mother,  I  shall  not  accept 
money  from  my  home.  I  can  live  on  little,  and  am 
I «  ry  fond  of  Bovril  and  buns. 

But  the  help  that    I   really  look  for  is  spiritual — 
the  help  to  be  given  by  the  letter  you  have  promised  on 

[22] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

the  difficulties  of  family  life.  I  feel  sure  it  will  throw 
a  rich  light  upon  the  subtle  effects  of  temper  on  hap- 
piness, and  I  look  forward  with  confident  hope  to  this 
harvest  of  your  long  experience. — Yours  deeply  and 

gratefully, 

Elaine  Thompson. 


[23] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


The  Hall,  Feversham-sur- Strand, 
September  3d,  1902. 

Dear  Miss  Elaine, — With  respect  to  the  sonnet 
which  you  are  good  enough  to  enclose,  I  am  grateful 
for  the  kindly  sentiment  which  it  expresses,  but  I 
should  be  wanting  in  candour  if  I  were  to  say  that  the 
execution  seems  to  me  equally  meritorious.  The  metre 
of  the  Sonnet  (even  when  handled  by  masters  of  the 
craft)  seems  to  me  unsatisfactory,  and,  in  the  hands 
of  amateurs,  it  is  apt  to  be  even  deplorable.  This 
frank  confession  of  my  personal  opinion  will,  in  some 
measure,  answer  your  question  about  Wordsworth.  I 
hope  I  adequately  recognise  his  high  moral  tone ;  and, 
for  my  own  part,  I  have  always  regarded  him  as  a  true 
lover  of  nature ;  but,  in  the  matter  of  poetical  expres- 
sion, I  belong  rather  to  that  school  of  which  Alexander 
Pope  is  the  supreme  exemplar.  And  here,  as  you  are 
embarking  on  a  literary  career,  I  may  perhaps  (as  one 
who  lias  long  dabbled  in  authorship)   venture  to  till 

r«4i 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

you  that  you  will  find  Pope's  "Essay  on  Man"  a  veri- 
table treasure-house  of  apt  and  pungent  quotation. 
But  I  must  eschew  digression,  and  pass  on  to  a  point 
of  more  practical  interest.  You  speak  of  my  "kind 
wish  to  read  your  novel."  Here,  I  fear,  the  pardon- 
able enthusiasm  of  early  authorship  has  carried  you  a 
little  beyond  the  record.  I  have  no  copy  of  my 
former  letter.  My  dear  wife  used  to  spend  a  good 
deal  of  her  time  in  copying  my  letters  into  large  vol- 
umes of  MS.,  which  were  bound  at  the  end  of  the  year, 
and  filed  in  the  library.  But  the  asthmatic  wheezing 
to  which  she  was  habitually  subject  was  so  much  in- 
creased by  the  habit  of  perpetually  poring  over  a  desk 
as  to  become  positively  distressing  to  all  around  her, 
and  (though  I  need  hardly  say  that  on  other  accounts 
I  deeply  deplored  her  loss)  the  cessation  of  this  pain- 
ful sound  was  an  actual  relief  to  my  nerves ;  and  of 
late  vears  my  letters  have  remained  uncopied.  I  am 
therefore  not  in  a  position  to  state  with  precision  the 
terms  which  I  employed  in  my  former  letter,  but,  so 
far  as  I  can  recall  them,  they  did  not  amount — cer- 

[2.5] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

tainly   they   were   not   intended  to  amount — to  more 
than   this,   that,  when   your   novel   was   completed,   I 
should  be  willing  (in  compliance  with  your  expressed 
desire)   to  examine — I  will  not  say  the  ethical  pro- 
priety, but  rather  the  convenuble-ness — of  a  particu- 
lar chapter,  with  respect  to  which  3-ou  yourself  seem  to 
be  in  considerable  doubt.     Pending  the  completion  of 
your   novel,   the   pecuniary   problem    stated   in    your 
former  letter   remains   unsolved;   and,   as   you  brush 
aside  (with  little  or  no  ceremony)  the  various  attempts 
at  a  solution  which  I  propounded,  I  will  leave  all  ques- 
tions of  that  nature  to  those  whom  they  more  immedi- 
ately concern,  and  will  redeem  my  promise  to  offer  a 
few  suggestions  about  the  difficulties  of  Family  Life. 
In  handling  this  perennially  interesting  but  delicate 
theme,  I  desire  to  proceed  with  a  stringency  which  my 
lamented  friend  Matthew  Arnold  would  have  called 
ic'issenschaftlich.    He  habitually  used  the  word  in  pref- 
erence to  "scientific,"  lest,  as  he  playfully  remarked, 
his  readers  should  imagine  that  he  had  any  interest  in 
the  blue  lights  and  bad  smells  of  a  chemical  lecture. 

[26] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

Sweeping  away,  then,  all  adventitious  and  accessory 
elements  of  unpleasantness,  I  say  that  the  essential 
principle — the  pith  and  substance — of  the  Disagree- 
ableness  of  Relations  consists  in  their  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  one's  character  and  habits.  Even  in  natures 
of  the  highest  type  there  are  limitations  and  imper- 
fections, little  weaknesses,  trifling  foibles,  of  which 
one  is  perhaps  even  painfully  conscious,  and  which  a 
not  unworthy  self-respect  prompts  one  to  conceal,  so 
far  as  may  be,  from  the  outer  world.  From  all  such  dim 
recesses  of  the  human  heart  the  curtain  is  ruthlessly 
torn  away  by  the  rough  hand  of  Relationship.  Let 
me  illustrate  this  from  the  records  of  my  life.  Owing 
to  physical  delicacy,  engendered  by  chronic  whoop- 
ing-cough with  its  resulting  emphysema,  I  was  not 
sent  to  a  Public  School,  but  was  retained  till  adoles- 
cence under  the  refining  influences  of  female  instruc- 
tion, and  I  shrank  with  a  natural  repugnance  from  the 
too-frequent  brutality  and  roughness  of  boy-life  and 
boy-amusements.  Cricket  I  honestly  contemned  as  un- 
worthy of    a    thinking    adolescent ;    and    hunting    I 

[27] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

roundly   denounced  as   a   concession  to   the   instincts 
of    savagery,     which     eighteen     centuries     of     civil- 
isation   had     been     powerless     to     eradicate.       My 
eldest     brother,     coming     home      from     Eton     for 
the    holidays,  was    wont    to     declare,    with    all    the 
vfipig    of  healthy  boyhood,  that  I  was  a  young  muff, 
who  blubbed   if   I   got   my   knuckles   hurt,   and   who 
jawed  against  hunting  because  I  funked  my  pony. 
Waving  the  characteristic  crudeness  of  phrase,  I  ask 
myself,  "Was  there  an  element  of  truth  in  all  this?" 
and  I  am  constrained  to  allow  that  there  was.     Yet  no 
one  except  my  eldest  brother  perceived  it ;  or,  perceiv- 
ing it,  thought  it  tactful  to  notice  it.     Poor  fellow ! 
he  broke  his  neck  in  a  regimental  steeplechase,  and 
Jacob,  if  I  may  express  mj'self  in  figurative  terms, 
acquired  Esau's  inheritance.     It  were  opposed  to  the 
instincts  of  natural  piety  to  bear  hard  upon  the  in- 
firmities of  the  long-deceased;  but  these  things  ran- 
kle ;  and  my  brother's  example  illustrates  one  phase  of 
the  Disagreeableness  of  Relations.     Others  recur  to 
the  memory  In  quick  succession. 

[28] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

At  Oxford  I  passed  for  a  while  under  the  influence 
of  the  Movement  (not,  in  my  later  judgment,  a 
healthy  one)  which  is  associated  with  the  names  of 
Keble  and  Pusey ;  and  I  purchased  a  Devotional  Man- 
ual by  an  ascetic  writer  called  Tartar,  which  con- 
tained a  Form  of  Self-examination.  A  young  lady  of 
your  delicacy  will,  I  feel  assured,  recognise  that  my 
sisters  overstepped  the  bounds  of  the  pleasantry  per- 
mitted in  family  life,  when,  finding  this  book  on  my 
table,  they  made  pencil  answers  to  several  of  the  most 
searching  questions — thus :  "Have  I  been  greedy  at 
meals?"  Yes — very  often.  "Do  I  always  speak  the 
truth?"  Hardly  ever.  "Have  I  lost  my  temper?" 
Bo  I  ever  keep  it?  "Am  I  liberal  in  almsgiving?" 
No;  I  am  a  horrid  screw. 

Much  water  has  flowed  under  the  bridge  since  those 
notes  were  written ;  and  Mr.  Tartar's  Manual  has  long 
been  laid  aside.  But  water  cannot  drown  the  unpleas- 
ant memories  of  early  life ;  and,  when  my  sisters  pro- 
pose to  pay  their  annual  visit  here,  I  am  haunted  by 
an  unpleasant  suspicion  that  they  keep  watchful  eyes 

[29] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

on  a  certain  nicety  in  the  matter  of  eating  and  drink- 
ing which  lifelong  dyspepsia  has  made  a  second  nature 
to  me ;  and  comment  harshly,  though  inaudibly,  on  the 
severe  retrenchment  which  a  diminished  rent-roll  has 
rendered  necessary. 

But,  after  all,  a  certain  amount  of  "imperfect  sym- 
pathy" (I  think  the  phrase  is  one  of  Charles  Lamb's, 
the  celebrated  Essayist)  between  brothers  and  sisters 
is  part  of  the  common  experience  of  life ;  and,  alas ! 
for  our  frail  humanity,  it  is  even  more  than  usually 
perceptible  in  cases  where  only  an  exiguous  provision 
is  made  for  the  younger  members  of  the  family.  In 
such  cases  it  is  generally  found  that  propinquity  is 
an  incentive  to  strife,  and  that  peace  is  best  secured 
by  distance.  A  different  ratio,  or  principle,  should,  as 
I  conceive,  characterize  the  relation  of  husband  and 
wife;  and  (though  this  is  a  subject  on  which  I  do  not 
enter  without  reluctance)  I  will  go  so  far  as  to  say 
that,  at  first,  I  found  my  dear  wife  a  little  inclined  to 
behave  as  if  she  were  one  of  my  relations.  Thus,  on 
her  first  arrival  at  Feversham,  she  did  not  scruple  to 

\S0] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

say   that  the  scenery   was   monotonous,  that   a   park 
without  deer  was  nothing  more  than  a  meadow,  and 
that    the    Hall    resembled   three    houses    in    Portland 
Place  joined  by  two  crooked  passages.     It  immedi- 
ately became  my  duty  to  point  out  that  the  Wood- 
houses  had  been  settled  on  these  lands  ever  since  the 
Reformation,  having  risen  into  greatness  on  the  ruins 
of  the  Benedictines ;  and  that  there  was  a  certain  in- 
definable cachet  about  the  place  and  its  surroundings 
which  an  education  in  Manchester  (where  my  father- 
in-law  accumulated  wealth)  had  scarcely  prepared  her 
to  appreciate.     Her  repartee,  to  the  effect  that  the 
Woodhouses,  having  had  such  a  good  start,  must  be 
rather  a  poor  lot  to  have  risen  to  no  greater  eminence 
in  three  centuries,  demanded  in  return  a  rebuke  which, 
on  the  principle  of  letting  bygones  be  bygones,  I  now 
decline  to  revive.     It  is  but  bare  justice  to  my  dear 
one's  memory  to  say  that  unpleasant  utterances  of 
this  type  were  soon  discontinued,  and  that  the  salutary 
labours  of  a  very  full  life  (for  my  broken  health  re- 
quired incessant  attention)  effectively  curbed  the  un- 

[31] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

due  vivacity  of  early  married  days.  But  the  old 
wound  long  retains  its  tenderness.  Painful  allusions 
are  not  easily  forgotten ;  and,  till  the  end,  I  never  felt 
quite  safe  when  conversation  took  a  personal  turn.  I 
have  lingered,  perhaps,  too  long  on  a  theme  fraught 
with  melancholy  interest.  As  one  of  our  poets  says, 
"We  look  before  and  after";  and  something  of  my 
own  experience  seems  to  be  reproduced,  dear  Miss 
Elaine,  in  yours.  I  perceive  that  you  have  already  be- 
gun to  realise — though,  perhaps,  you  scarcely  know 
how  to  formulate — this  illuminating  truth:  "As  a 
brutal  realism  is  the  Destruction  of  Art,  so  is  a  ruth- 
less truthfulness  the  Curse  of  the  Family." — Your 
friend  and  well-wisher, 

Algernon  Wentworth-Woodhouse. 

P.S. — If  my  memory  does  not  deceive  me,  you  were 
christened  Ellen. 


[32] 


CHAPTER    III 


CHAPTER  III 

Telegrams:  Rhys  Llanymws. 
Plas  Cwmefn,  Cardiff, 
September  8th. 

DEAR  ALGERNON,— It  is  long  since  I  have 
sent  you  a  letter,  and  now  I  am  writing 
because  I  very  much  want  your  advice. 
You  are  the  only  person  I  can  appeal  to — 
since  not  only  are  you  a  man,  but  also  a  man  of  the 
world.  My  position  as  a  widow  makes  intimate  inter- 
course with  most  men  a  difficult  matter.  Not  that 
dear  George  was  ever  of  much  help  in  that  way,  but 
then  he  was  a  younger  son  and  a  clergyman,  and  use- 
fulness was  therefore  not  in  his  line.  It  is  you,  his 
elder  brother,  the  head  of  the  family,  to  whom  I  look 
for  counsel. 

The  gist  of  the  matter  is  this:     I  have  resolved  to 
give  the  girls  a  season  in  London.    Dora  has  been  out 

[35] 


THE    vVOODHOl  SE    (  ORRESPONDENi  E 

for  i  \'  if — vou  know  uluit  thai  means  at  CwmefsT — 
and  Lilian  has  just  turned  eighteen.     Dora  baa  ur,,<>(l 

look-  and  an  elegant   figUP  :   Lilian  II  d« eidt dlv   plain, 

but  has  a  fine  contralto  voice;  and  I  have  this  damp 
littl.  honie  and  a  bare  seven  hundred  a  year.  Tin  r 
onlv  chance  ii  to  marry,  and  they  can  only  marry  suit- 
ably   in    London.      Their    Latin  r*S    daughters,    not    to 

speak  of  mine  (and  the  Quintiliana  of  Quintflian  are 
hardly  nobodies),  could  not  possibly  find  tluir  match 
in  these  porta ;  for,  after  all,  both  von  and  I  have  good 
Norman  blood  in  our  veins.  But  the  Question  is,  Horn 
is  it  to  be  donet  Of  course,  I  -hall  1 1  this  house,  but 
the  rent  will  be  needed  for  Tom'-  Bchoolii 

In  these  matter-  it  is  best  to  be  plain,  bo  I  will  just 
enumerate  the  questions  I  want  xmi  to  answer.  To 
begin  with:  What  are  the  readiest  meam  to  mak< 
good  -how  on  next  to  no  income?  Where  can  ire  find 
cheap  apartments  with  a  good  address--  something 
that  might  pass  as  a  flat?  Does  South  Belgi 
count,  or  dot-  everyone  know  that  it  mean-  Pimlico? 

And,    a-    we    arc    on    finance,    how    Long    do    vou    think 

I  86  I 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

the  Stores — say  Harrod's    Stores — will    wait    to    be 
paid  ? 

Now,  as  to  Society.  Is  a  winter  season  any  good? 
My  own  feeling  is  that  we  had  better  fly  high,  and  go 
in  for  the  regular  summer  campaign.  I  know  nobody 
in  London  except  my  dentist ;  George's  former  curate 
— now  married — and  one  old  lady  who  respected  my 
father.  How  is  one  to  set  about  knowing  the  right 
sort  of  people — the  families  of  eligible  men — without 
showing  that  one  knows  no  one?  And  how  is  one  to 
get  men  to  the  house  when  the  house  is  let  in  lodgings  ? 
or  should  one  belong  to  a  Club  and  never  reveal  one's 
address?  Also,  what  are  the  things  to  go  to?  Is  Hen- 
ley, for  instance,  de  rigueur,  or  Ascot,  or  the  Opera? 
And  what  other  ways  are  there  of  advertising  oneself? 
I  hear  that  self-advertisement  has  become  a  fine  art, 
that  everything,  short  of  sandwich-men  (they  should 
always  be  women),  can  be  used  in  that  direction,  but  I 
should  like  your  authority  as  to  the  best  way  to  set 
about  it.  And  then,  what  of  diamonds?  You  know 
that  I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  my  jewel-case,  con- 

[37] 


j  in.    W00DH01  BE    I  ORRESPONDEN*  E 

dant  and  also  the  horseshoe,  in 

Jl    rubi<  -    and  ik  1    chips,    give  DJ     JOUI 

fath«  r  on  mv  marriage     Should  I  hire  ><  unondl 

(I  bear  thai  Lady  G.  <:  .  and,  in  thk  i 

g  *  then  by  th<  i  reduction  made  if 

them  by  the  month? 
:  will  greatly  assist  me  if  you  will  reply  to  these 
question!  by  return.    You  see  thai  I  turn  minced 

fctersj  but  mince  i>  □  ry  nourishing.     If  3 

live  in  Home,  vou  must  do  ai  the  Elomani  do,  and  . 

better,  if  possible,  to  do  it  1  .   That 

b  en  my  motto,  and  I  ihaH  try  to  act  on  it 

now.      As  long  a>  I  WBM  ■  cL  -rgvinaii*-  not 

fitting  that  I  should  be  worldly — and  then    R  Ifl  00 

on  tor  me  to  be  10;  but  the  same  rule  doei  not  ap- 
ply to  a  clergyman'f  widow,  and  I  lee  little  <\'AY*  r 

:i  worldlim  —  and  what   i^  called  11  I   -<  nti- 

t.       J    ii.  .  d    not     n  mind    vou    that    it    i>    I  . 

daugfad  our  own   nieces-    I   ask   your   help   for 

(Lilian,  indeed,  is  in  all  WBJt  a  thorough  Woodhou 
and  I  am  RUN  .   if  you   give   it.  you  will  ha\e  yOQI  H - 

I w  J 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

ward.  I  will  only  add  that  I  hope  your  health  is  bet- 
ter than  when  I  last  heard  from  you.  and  that  the 
baths  did  you  good. — Believe  me.  your  affectionate 
sister-in-law. 

Maude  Qutntojaji  Woodhouse. 

P. S. — Pray  do  not  mention  the  fact  of  our  coming 
to  London,  if  you  should  be  writing  to  your  protc ?g 
the  Thompsons.  They  ought  to  have  been  mentioned 
in  my  list  of  the  people  I  know  in  town.  But  you  will 
easily  understand  that  I  wish  to  avoid  them.  Have 
you  heard  that  that  dreadful  eldest  girl,  Elaine  (who 
always  used  to  be  Ellen),  the  one  with  the  worst  com- 
plexion, is  going  to  set  up  as  a  nurse,  or  a  typewriter, 
or  something?  Happily,  though,  in  London,  it  is 
easier  to  lose  the  acquaintance  you  don?t  want  than 
to  find  the  ones  that  vou  do. 


[89] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


The   Hall.    Feversiiam-m-r-Stranp. 
September   loih,    i 

Di  \k  M  win:, — It  is,  as  you  justly  CO*  rw  ,  "some- 
time'1 since  I  received  a  Letter  from  you.  Fou  might 
strengthen  the  statement,  and  Bay  "some  considerable 
time,"  or  ev<  □  ua  long  time,"  and  ye!  not  incur  the  re- 
proach of  exaggeration.  I  think  you  must  be  aware 
that,  since  my  dear  one  left  me,  my  life  in  this  lai 
and  rather  dreary  house  has  little  in  the  way  of  bright- 
or  ( i  to  pi  so  far  aa  intelL  ctual  resouro  -  are  con- 
cerned)  of  interest.  To  receive!  from  time  to  time, 
Borne  account  of  Intermediate  Education  in  Wales,  or 

jm  sent  aspect  of  the  Tithe  Question,  would 
ably  vary  1 1 1 « -  monotony  of  existence,  and  would  recall 

in  fancy  to  once  familiar  fields.     It  was,  etc.     It 

.  I  confess,  with  some  feeling  of  disappointment 
that,  on  opening  your  letter,  I   found  it   irholly  en- 

— •  d  with  personal  and— if  I  may  lay  bo     rather 

.  J    topic-. 

I  w  I 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

You  appeal  to  me  as  "a  man  of  the  world" — a  title 
bearing  various  senses,  to  some  of  which  I  la}T  no  claim 
— and  as  the  eldest  living  brother  of  your  late  hus- 
band ;  and  you  request  my  advice  in  matters  touching 
the  well-being  of  your  family.  I  believe  that  an  in- 
difference to  the  claims  of  family  affection  is  not  a 
fault  with  which  I  could  be  justly  charged;  but  I  feel 
it  due  to  myself  to  say  that  a  request  for  advice  comes 
rather  oddly  from  you  to  me.  I  am  unwilling  to  re- 
kindle the  embers  of  past  controversy,  but  I  cannot 
forget  that  your  husband,  my  junior  by  several  years, 
systematical!}'  declined  to  be  guided  by  my  advice. 
He  persisted  in  adopting  a  clerical  career  (for  which 
I  held  him  to  be  eminently  unfitted),  and  rejected, 
almost  with  discourtesy,  an  excellent  opening  in  busi- 
ness at  Shanghai,  which,  at  some  inconvenience  to  my- 
self, I  had  procured  for  him.  No  sooner  was  he  or- 
dained than,  with  the  most  culpable  imprudence,  he  be- 
came engaged  to  you ;  and  it  will  not  offend  you  if  I 
say — for  }*ou  have  always  known  it — that  I  considered 
you  an  extremely  unsuitable  wife  for  a  country  clergy- 

[«] 


THK    WOODHorsE    CORRESPONDENCE 

H(.u  t!  ird  of  my  judgment 

..t.  d.  I  a!::  to  r-  mill (i  you.     End  i  d,  . 

i  no  r.  minder  mOfC  forcible-  than  your  pn  Milt  cir- 

tanci-s.      While    -till    a    comparative  ng 

.   •    »u  find  yoUTSClf  a  widow,  practically    p  nni- 

1<  ->.  and  burdened  with  the  maintenance  of  a  U 
and  family.     Had  poor  G     rg     (ai  whote 

memory  a  brother  shoold  be  the  last  to  thn 

ted  the  appointment  at  Shanghai,  he  would,  as 
likely  ai  not,  bo  alive  now  and  in  re©  Ipt  oi  ent 

income.      In  any  the  early  and  imprudent   mar- 

riage, which  has  led  to  so  many  disasti  raj  would,  in  all 
probability,  have  been  avoided. 

But  I  turn  (I  confess  with  some  relief)  from  t 
distressing    retr<  .    and    from    the    al  idle 

itndy  of  the  might-have-been  to  the  present   and  the 
Si  tual. 

You  say  that  you  have  "resolved"  on  giving  your 
Ifl  a   >ea>on   in    London.      Had  you   asked   me  in 
c     what    I   thought    of  this  project,   I   ihould   1. 

I       •        r*i  frankness  in  telling  you  that  I  thought 

I  I'-'  I 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

it  even  culpably  absurd.  As,  however,  you  speak  of 
it  as  already  resolved  on,  I  am  bound  to  assume  that 
you  have  some  pecuniary  resources  of  which  I  have  no 
cognisance ;  and  your  request  for  my  advice  amounts 
only  to  a  request  for  hints  as  to  the  methods  by  which 
these  resources,  greater  or  smaller  (I  fear  smaller), 
can  be  applied  with  the  best  result. 

As  to  what  you  say  about  the  good  looks  of  one 
daughter  and  the  musical  gifts  of  the  other,  you  will 
not  think  me  harsh  or  unsympathetic  if  I  brush  it  aside 
as  the  natural  utterance  of  a  mother's  partiality.  I 
have  often  observed  that  girls  considered  pretty  in  the 
home  circle  have  made  no  impression  in  Society ;  and, 
when  a  girl  is  confessedly  and  undeniably  plain,  ac- 
complishments of  a  very  high  order  are  requisite  to 
outweigh  the  defect.  Accomplishments  are,  I  should 
fear,  quite  out  of  your  reach  at  Plas  Cwmefn ;  and  an 
uncultivated  contralto  cannot  be  reckoned  as  a  social 
asset. 

Your  allusion  to  your  own  family  seems  to  me,  if  I 
may  say  so,  entirely  beside  the  mark.    Unless  I  am 

[43] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    I  0RRESPONDEN1  E 

1 1 1  _\  inisinformed,  t lu-  agricultural  d<  pn  —Inn  which 

yed  m  many  good  familio  during  the  last 

twenty  yean  has  borne  with  peculiar  severity  on  jour 

brother9!  property.    I  think  it  ii  many  yean  lince  he 

had  ■  house-  in  London  (even  for  tin.  >i  MOO  ).  and,  in  a 

world  where  people  are  busy  and  memories  ihort,  I 

r  vou  will  not  find  Quintilian  a  name  to  conjure 
with.    I  am  free  to  confess  thai  opportunities  of  mar- 
mited  to  your  girls'  position  and  education  * 

more  likely  to  occur  at  or  a<  ar  Cardiff  than  in  London. 
The  moneyed  men  of  that  thriving  town  might  1><  at- 
tracted by  the  prospect  of  an  alliance  with  the  County  ; 
and  a  rrirl  with  wholesome  rural  tasfa  -  I 
\  •  ry  happy  at  wife  to  a  gentleman  farmer.  T: 
consolations,  however,  must  be  dismiss*  d  if,  ss  I  and  r- 
itand,  you  have  "resolveb?1  to  come  t<>  London.    I  may 

j  iid  the  project   SS  an   infatuation;  hut    it    is   satis- 

'ory — if,  indeed,  the  circumstances  admit  of  any 

satisfaction — that  you  havr  allow.  d  yourself  COnsidl  r- 

able  latitude  in  point  of  time,  so  that  the  §cn<  me  can  be 
looked  at  in  every  light,  and  if  (as  I  anticipate)  found 

MM 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

impracticable,  can  be  abandoned  without  further  loss 
of  dignity. 

In  the  first  place,  I  should  recommend  any  family 
who  contemplate  a  visit  to  London  on  small  means  (and 
yours,  I  fear,  are  very  small)  to  choose  the  winter 
months.  The  prevalence  of  fog  has  long  made  it  im- 
possible for  me  to  return  to  London  before  May,  or 
(in  a  reasonably  fine  spring)  April,  but  I  believe  that 
December,  January,  and  February  are  very  tolerable 
months  for  people  in  strong  health,  and  the  keen  air 
of  March  is  actively  beneficial  to  those  who  can  stand 
it.  L^nfortunatelv,  people  with  small  incomes  too  often 
have  delicate  health ;  but  this  is  a  combination  of 
misfortunes  which,  as  you  do  not  mention  it,  I  hope 
you  have  so  far  escaped.  The  advantages  of  the  win- 
ter are  obvious.  The  short  days  and  imperfect  light 
will  enable  a  scanty  and  shabby  wardrobe  to  pass  with- 
out unfavourable  notice.  There  are  no  balls,  so  your 
girls  will  not  be  mortified  by  reports  of  gaieties  in 
which  they  have  no  place,  and,  as  the  town  is  compara- 
tively empty,  you  will  find  people  more  inclined  to  ask 

[45] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDED  E 

vou  to  luncheon  (  f  to  dinner)  tl 

during  the  araion     And,  uith  your  itraitened  mem    • 

matter  of  Kxnc  moment. 

Afl  to  vour  place  of  rend  -I  ilv  in  favour 

of  ■  >inall  furniabed  Hat  aomewhere  in  W  it  B 

ton,  or,  if  vou  pn  fa  a  mOTC  bracing  climat-.-.  on  the 

upp  r  ride  of  Marykbone  Bond  My  reaaon  for  recom- 

im ruling  a  flat  is  that  I  am  given  to  nnderttand  that 
in  a  flat  vou  can  do  without  servant*.     Tin-  |  md 

knf  wife  can,  I  believe,  be  induced  to  bring  up  CO 

and  -onallv    sweep    the    apartments    and    your 

daughter*,    who    will   find    time    hang   luavy    on    ti 
hands,  can  occupy  themselves  with  the  lighter  part 
the  household  work,  thus  both  amoaing  themaeh 

ling  your  pocket.     The  principal  mea]  of  tin-  day 
ran  be  procured  on  a  tray  from  the  adjacent  pa-try- 
cookV  and  sardines  cocoa,  and  similar  light   mat- 
will   supply  the  material   of  your  subsidiary   DM  aN. 

I  am  obliged  by  your  enquiry  after  art  h«  alth,  but 
the  position  which  it  occnpi<  i  in  your  letter  forbidi  me 

ird   it   as  much  more  than  a   conventional   form, 
I    Hi  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

and  I  therefore  do  not  encumber  my  letter  with  a  de- 
tailed reply. 

There  is  a  proverbial  saying  about  a  lady's  post- 
scripts, too  hackneyed  to  need  repetition.  I  am  re- 
minded of  it  by  your  reference  to  the  Thompsons. 
Poor  Thompson  has  by  no  means  fulfilled  in  manhood 
the  promise  of  his  youth ;  but  fidelity  to  early  friend- 
ship is  with  me  a  sacred  principle,  and  the  fact  that  he 
is  a  clerk  in  Somerset  House  has  never  diminished  my 
regard  for  him.  I  am  godfather  to  his  daughter  Ellen 
or  Elaine,  who  has  lately  written  to  me  about  some 
foolish  and  impracticable  scheme  with  which  she  is 
busying  herself.  Your  knowledge  of  my  circum- 
stances will  enable  you  to  appreciate  the  humour  of  the 
situation  when  I  tell  you  that  the  poor  girl,  being  anx- 
ious to  leave  her  parents'  roof,  hinted,  not  obscurely, 
that  I  should  make  a  home  for  her!  Comment  is 
superfluous. — Affectionately  yours, 

A.  W.-W. 


[47] 


CHAPTER    IV 


CHAPTER  IV 

Plas    Cwmefn, 
September   i$tli. 

DEAR  ALGERNON,— Let  mo  at  once  thank 
you  very  sincerely  for  your  letter;  frank 
though  it  was,  I  am  truly  grateful 
for  it.  I  have  long  wished  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  tell  you  of  my  regret  for  the  past,  and  of 
my  full  admission  that  you  were  right  in  every  par- 
ticular about  George's  affairs.  Shanghai  would  have 
been  the  right  place  for  him  and  the  Church  was  the 
wrong  one,  and  had  he  followed  your  admirable  advice 
things  would  have  been  very  different.  Yet,  in  one  re- 
spect (may  I  say  it?)  your  judgment — by  no  fault  of 
your  own — was  not  so  perspicacious  as  usual.  You 
never  understood  me — and  I  do  not  blame  you,  for 
every  appearance  was  against  me.    Even  then,  though 

[51] 


THE    vVOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENT  E 

I  wild  not  but  deplore  it.  I  adored  your  wisdom  and 
sincerity,  and  it  was  only  pique  at  forfeiting  what  I 
should  <1  bo  highly  thai  made  my  manner  to 

von  seem  somewhat  abrupt.  I  know  (to  use  your 
father*!  rather  crude  phrase  at  the  time)  that  your 

ily  considered  I  "threw  myself  al  G     rg  ibV 

and  you  were  not  the  least  emphatic  among  them.  But 
even  had  dear  (*<  rgi  possessed  a  head  to  throw  one- 
self at,  this  accusation  was  far  from  the  truth.  Our 
marriage  was  purely  a  love  match,  and,  to  !>»•  strictly 

urate,  the  love  was  much  stronger  on  G     rg  '- 
than  on  mine.    //<  would  June  me  I    I  might  have  made 

ral  much  more  desirable  marriages;  but  I  loved 
G     /_        I  iaw  that  he  needed  a  guiding  star — a  bu>i- 

-  li-  ad  to  put  order  in  bis  affairs — and  so  I  yielded. 
You,  dear  Algernon,  who  are  still  so  much  made  of, 

ittractive,  you  yourself  must  have  known  at  -omc 
time  what  love  was-  -the  love  of  woman,  which  urges 
men  to  forsake  worldly  wisdom  and  to  act  against  their 
persona]  interests.     Your  d  ar  wife  bad,  I  believe, 
large  fortune;  but  before  her  day  was  not  your  heart 

I  B«  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

stirred  by  some  emotion  that  makes  you  comprehend 
that  of  poor  George?  If  you  have  loved,  then,  dear 
Algernon,  be  merciful !  And,  indeed,  as  you  so  truly 
write,  I  have  suffered  for  my  folly.  You  speak  of  the 
agricultural  depression  that  ruined  the  Quintilians.  It 
is  as  nothing  compared  to  the  depression  that  I  suf- 
fered during  my  union  with  dear  George.  He  was 
always  plunged  in  the  depths.  Everything  about  him, 
in  fact,  was  low — his  spirits,  his  Church  views,  his 
funds,  and  the  situation  of  his  Vicarage,  which,  as  you 
remember,  was  built  on  clay.  And  I  may  add  that,  as 
compared  to  yours,  his  intellectual  capacities  were  low 
also.  But  I  have  learned  my  lesson,  and  for  the 
future,  believe  me,  I  shall  act  entirely  on  your  advice. 
I  think  when  vou  have  heard  all  that  I  have  to  say, 
you  will  agree  with  me  that,  after  all,  it  will  really  be 
best  for  me  to  bring  the  girls  to  town  for  the  summer 
season.  In  the  winter  I  feel  they  would  have  no  chance 
— besides  which  your  kind  scruples  about  us  are  hap- 
pily groundless.  Your  almost  fatherly  goodness  in 
enquiring  about  my  income  compels  candour  on  my 

[53] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

The  fad  ii  that  I  eke  out  our  scanty  pittance  by 
writing  the  week] 3  9       ty  Letter  to  the  "Australasian 
Chins  it"  the  famous  Colonial  periodical.     Aline 
tin-   contributions    headed   "Belgra<?ia9M   and 
•  TottmeM :  and  (as  I  have  not  the  advantage  of  being 
in  the  hear!  of  things)  I  make  them  op  from  the  vari- 
ous Dewspapers  thai  I  read  in  the  Public  Library 
Cardiff.    Nor  do  I  object  to  your  knowing  thai  I  also 
write  the  monthly  article  on  Fashions  for  the  "Cymric 
Madame,"  a  flourishing  local  paper.    The  pecuniary 
remuneration  for  thi>  work  is  merely  nominal,  bul 
I  find  occasion  in  my  pages  to  praise  the  leading  mod- 
istes Of  tin    place,  the  latter  allow  inr  a  COmnUSSion  ill 

kind,  which  is  of  materia!  help  in  our  <ln  38  expendi- 
ture. Wlun  I  tell  you  that  for  more  important  gar- 
ments, such  as  jackets,  mantle-,  etc.,  I  make  it  a  rule  to 

come  op  to  London  and  attend  the  annual   Lost    Prop- 
erty Bale  (a  -ale  of  all  objects  lost  in  railways,  etc, 
which  takes  place  in  Victoria  Street ).  you  will  no  Ion- 
he  lurprised  to  hear  that  my  girls  are  always  well, 

<  veil  utly,  dre^M  d.  and  this  at  a  minimum  co>t. 

[  M  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

Then  as  to  our  place  of  residence.  On  mature  con- 
sideration, I  think  I  could  bring  myself  to  live  in  West 
Kensington,  provided  we  need  not  use  those  words  in 
our  address,  but  could  substitute  the  letter  W.  And 
inferior  though  the  poor  Thompsons  are,  it  has  struck 
me  that  they  might  be  of  use  in  this  predicament.  I 
heard  in  a  roundabout  way  that  that  tiresome  Ellen  (I 
will  not  call  her  Elaine)  is  about  to  take  a  flat  for  her- 
self, and  it  strikes  me  that,  if  dates  suit,  it  might  be 
economical  for  us  both  if  she  found  one  large  enough 
to  hold  us  also.  We  would,  on  either  side,  pay  half  the 
rent,  and  as  by  this  arrangement  she  would  have  the 
benefit  of  my  chaperonage,  the  whole  affair  would  be  of 
signal  advantage  to  her.  I  should,  in  fact,  do  it 
mainly  for  her  sake,  and  this  excuse  alone  would  suffice 
to  account  for  our  living  in  a  suburb.  Between  us, 
also,  we  could  easily  afford  a  maid-servant.  I  should 
be  more  than  grateful  if  you  would  give  me  your  opin- 
ion of  this  scheme,  for  without  your  sanction  I  will  do 
nothing.  And  if  there  is  any  feminine  service  that  I 
can  ever  do  for  you  (for  love)  at  Portland  Place,  I  beg 

[5.5] 


THi:    WOODHOrSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

vou  to  let  me  know  that  I  may  hasten  t<>  perform  it. 
Tlu  touch  "t"  a  iroman  do.  -  m  much. — Your  thankful 

r-in-lau, 

M.\r: i]     (<>.    WoOOHOUl 

Then-  i^  no  reason  why  the  girls,  especially  Lilian, 
should  not  seek  some  lady-like  employment  during  their 
mornings  in  London.    I  remember  thai  your  iweet  old 

aunt.  Lady  Louisa  Fitzwigan,  W&8  form,  rly  in  want  of 

I  0  cn  tarv  and  reader.  Should  Bhe  >till  want  one  in -\t 
M  iy,  will  you  think  of  my  Lilian,  who  Lb  quite  B  little 
sunbeam  and  has  ■  perfect  talent  for  reading  aloud  ? 


I  M  I 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


The  Hall,  Feversham-sur-Strand, 
September  20th,  1902. 

Dear  Maude, — Your  letter  of  the  15th  inst.  shows, 
I  regret  to  say,  a  very  imperfect  apprehension  of  your 
past  and  present  circumstances.  I  can  hardly  suppose 
that  you  are  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Bishop  But- 
ler (who  must  be  carefully  distinguished  from  Dr. 
Butler,  now  Master  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge), 
or  even  with  those  of  my  lamented  friend  Matthew 
Arnold,  who  endeavoured  to  make  the  writings  of  that 
great  philosopher  intelligible  to  the  ignorant  and  the 
half -in  formed.  I  shall  therefore  not  offend  you  by 
telling  you  of  a  saying  of  Bishop  Butler's  on  which  I 
have  been  accustomed  greatly  to  rely,  and  which  was 
frequently  on  my  lips  during  my  loved  one's  prolonged 
illness:  "Things  are  what  they  are,  and  the  conse- 
quences of  them  will  be  what  they  will  be ;  why,  then, 
should  we  desire  to  be  deceived?" 

Applying  this  wise  sentence  to  your  own  case,  I 

[5T] 


THK    WOODIIOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

would  observe  that  no  late  regrets  on  your  part  can 
undo  the  fact  thai  you  made  an  extremely  unwise  mar- 
.  and  the  consequence*  of  thai  act  will  be,  and 
must  be,  what  tiny  are— and  tiny  are  lamentable 
nigh*  I  fli««i—  u  irrelevant  to  the  present  issue 
the  immediate  causes  which  led  to  your  engagement, 

and  I  should  do  so  even  if  my  recollection  of  the  fact* 

tallied  more  precisely  with  yours  than  i->  the  case.     I 

may  remark  in  passing  that  any  enquiry  into  my  own 

all-too-short  experience  of  married  bappin<  >>  would  be, 

in    my    view,  an   act  of  the    IfOTSt    possible   taste,   and 

would  preclude  any  further  correspondence  with 
the  person  guilty  of  such  an  outrage  on  good 
feeling. 

From  this  digression  I  return  to  the  matter  in  band. 
Compliments  are  not  much  to  my  taste,  and,  though  I 
am  -ure  that  yours  are  both  sincere  and  well-intend  d. 
they  must  not  deter  me  from  saying  plainly  that  I  de- 
plore and  even  condemn  your  determination  to  bring 
your  daughters   to    London    for   the   Bummer.      I   1. 

clearly  1'Jipi  eased  my  opinion  that,  if  you  must  come 

I  58  I 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

at  all  (and  I  see  no  necessity  for,  or  probable 
advantage  from,  your  coming,  the  best  time  for 
your  visit  would  be  the  winter  which  is  now  begin- 
ning. 

From  that  opinion  I  do  not  recede ;  and,  if  you  per- 
sist in  disregarding  it,  I  shall  hold  myself  absolved 
from  any  obligation  to  facilitate  what  I  must  consider 
culpable  folly.  As  to  your  purely  personal  matters, 
you  may  have  noticed  that  I  did  not  even  comment  on  a 
question  in  your  former  letter  about  Diamonds ;  but 
your  allusion  was  too  clear  to  be  misunderstood.  My 
loved  one's  jewels  have  been,  since  her  death,  at  my 
Bank,  and  will  remain  there.  If  you  think  it  necessary 
to  wear  jewellery  of  any  kind,  I  should  have  thought 
that  something  in  the  way  of  jet  or  bogwood  would  be 
more  suitable  to  your  circumstances.  Those  circum- 
stances are,  no  doubt,  somewhat  (though  not,  I  should 
imagine,  to  any  great  extent)  alleviated  by  the  pen- 
work  which  you  describe ;  but  even  here  a  word  of  cau- 
tion is  necessary.  Literature  is  one  of  the  most  digni- 
fied of  employments,  and  cases  have  come  to  my  knowl- 

[59] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

edge  irhere  the  authors  of  religious  noveli  have  eren 
been  able  to  purchase  landed  property  with  the  prod- 
uct! of  their  pen.     But  nicb  writing  u  von  d<  icribe 

falls,  I  fear,  very  far  short  of  "literatim,"  whether 
as  to  dignity  or  as  to  profit  ;  and  those  who  traffic  in 

such  slippery  irarefl  run  a  considerable  risk  of  losing 
whatever  they  may  have,  by  nature  or  by  antecedents, 
in  the  way  of  self-respect  and  good  taste. 

As  regard-  your  place  of  residence  in  London  (al- 
ways assuming  that  you  yield  to  my  judgment,  and 
come  up  in  the  winter),  I  incline  to  West  Kensington. 

I  may  tell  you  that  it  is  really  part  of  the  parish  of 

Fulliain;  hut  the  title  of  "West  Kensington*1  has  b 

invented  by  the  inhabitants  as  tending  to  bring  them 
nearer  to  the  precincts  of  Society.    No  further  modi- 
fication of  the  address  would,  under  the  cireuiiMan 
b>    practicable. 

NO  doubt,  our  good  friends  the  T.'s,  having  a 
large  family  and  very  narrow  means,  might  give  you 
useful    hints   about    domestic    management.      Whether 

you  would  find  my  god-danghter  a  pleasant,  or  even  ■ 

I  80  I 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

possible,  addition  to  your  own  circle,  I  am  disposed, 
after  reading  her  letters,  to  doubt. 

I  am  obliged  by  your  kind  offer  to  help  me  in  the 
management  of  my  London  house,  but  I  am  one  of 
those  who  set  a  very  high  value  on  old  servants,  and  I 
am  convinced  that  my  butler  and  housekeeper  would 
resent  any  intrusions,  however  well  meant. 

My  aunt,  about  whose  affairs  you  are  good  enough 
to  concern  yourself,  is  now  a  confirmed  invalid  of  the 
nervous  type,  and  the  mere  sight  of  a  stranger's  face 
induces  such  alarming  paroxysms  of  paralysis  agitans 
that  she  can  only  see  old  and  intimate  friends. — Af- 
fectionately yours, 

Algernon  Wentworth-Woodhouse. 

P.S. — I  open  my  letter  in  order  to  append  this 
cutting  which  I  have  just  taken  from  the  "Guardian," 
a  weekly  paper  of  high  respectability.  It  is  an  open- 
ing which  might  suit  one  of  your  girls. 

"Wanted — Young  Gentlewoman,  willing  to  do  entire  work 
of    small    flat    for    vicar's    daughter.      Housework,    cooking. 

[61  ] 


THE  WOODHOUSE  CORRESPONDENCE 

Uework.     State  ape  (i6to2i).      Si  •  State 

father's    profession.      £10. — Vicarage,    Chffttf    Road,    Dart- 
mouth Park.'* 

The  remuneration  Lb  certainty  not  exorbitant,  but 

the    .situation    II    healthy,    and    I    dare    sav    the    duties 

would  not  DC  M  laborious  M  they  sound. 

A.  W.W. 


63   | 


CHAPTER    V 


CHAPTER  V 

84  Bute  Street.  W., 
Tuesday. 

MY  DEAR  NEPHEW,— I  am  addressing 
you,  as  I  believe  you  to  be  the  only  mem- 
ber of  your  family  who  has  the  slightest 
common  sense.  Your  poor  sister  Fanny 
was  born  a  fool,  and  your  brother  George  made  himself 
one.  The  rest  are  cut  after  the  same  pattern.  But 
you  can,  at  all  events,  take  care  of  yourself  without 
giving  trouble  to  others.  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that 
I  am  about  to  write  to  you  upon  the  only  subject 
worth  considering — Health.  Of  course  I  mean  bad 
health,  and  my  own  bad  health  in  particular. 

You  may  thank  Heaven  that  you  have  escaped  my 
trials,  and  that  you  and  your  mother's  branch  of  the 
family  have  never  known  what  suffering  means.   Your 

[65] 


THE  WOODHOUSE  CORRESPONDENCE 

liver,  of  which  Tin  fully  aware  that  you  complain, 
cannot  be  laid  to  count  ;  for  liver  complaint.  M  <\i tv 
doctor  will   tell  you,   is  the  ailment  of  strong  people. 

Your  dear  mother  had  it. — he  wai  ■  ?ery  bilious  rob- 

ject, — and  I  have  never  had  the  slightest  douht  that  it 
Wai  that  which  killed  her,  and  not  consumption,  as  w U 
supposed.  I  know  a  stomach-cough  when  I  hear  it. 
But  your  parents  always  had  a  sad  predisposition  to 
Coddle,  and  you  were  unfortunately  brought  up  to  do 
tin  same.  I  beg  of  you  to  take  my  advice  and  to  have 
plain  food  and  plenty  of  fresh  air  and  exercise:  })elieze 
we,  tliat  is  ell  ifou  leant.  With  me,  as  you  know,  it 
is  a  vi tv  different  matter.  It  is  an  old  story  that  I  am 
a  chronie  sufferer  from  my  heart  and  my  nerve-tissues. 
Indeed,  my  new  doctor  tells  me  that  mif  ease  if  unique. 
And  this  brings  me  to  my  point.  I  do  not  think  I  have 
yd  bold  you  about  this  last  man,  Dr.  Chubb.  I  was 
obliged  to  discharge  his  predecessor,  Riley,  whom  you 
remember  as  being  most  mendacious  and  incapable;  he 
actually  had  the  impudence  to  tell  me  I  had  nothing 
the  matter  with  me  and  that   I  should  be  better  if  I 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

lived  like  other  people.  But  his  departure  was  a  bless- 
ing in  disguise,  for  Chubb  is  a  positive  genius,  and  I 
have  at  last  found  a  medical  man  who  understands  my 
constitution.  I  lighted  upon  him  quite  by  accident  at 
Westgate,  on  the  Parade,  where  he  was  providentially 
walking  when  I  happened  to  be  seized  with  one  of  my 
Spasms — of  the  cardiac  and  not  the  dyspeptic  sort. 
He  came  up  to  my  bath-chair  (I  was  alone  with  the 
footman),  and  with  his  extraordinary  powers  of  diag- 
nosis instantly  recognised  my  symptoms  and  arrested 
them  with  miraculous  skill — insisting  also  on  accom- 
panying me  back  to  my  hotel.  He  there  made  the  im- 
portant discovery  that  not  only  are  my  nerve-centres 
displaced,  but  they  show  every  sign  of  complete  in- 
anition. Since  then  he  has  regularly  prescribed  for 
me,  and  has  attended  me  with  the  utmost  devotion.  In 
fact,  I  brought  him  back  to  town  with  me,  and  he  has 
for  the  last  two  months  been  living  in  my  house  as  my 
salaried  resident  ph}Tsician.  He  has  now  put  me  upon 
the  Muffin  Diet,  which  has  already  worked  wonders  for 
me.    It  is  a  diet  invented  by  him,  and  is,  I  hear,  making 

[67] 


THE  WOODHOUSE  CORRESPONDENCE 

hi-  fame.  Tlir  patient  takes  ■  hot  buttered  muffin 
ev<  iv  two  hours,  and  tumbler  of  tepid  water  fifty 

minutes  after  eating  it.  The  results,  for  delicati 
iv  incredible. 
Unfortunately,  he  has  now  been  obliged  to  take  a 
and  has  gone  off  on  a  holiday  to  South  Africa.  No 
letters  are  to  follow  him.  I  haw  therefore  n  solved  to 
consult  you,  as  I  am  Deeding  immediate  information 
and  know  that  your  anxiety  about  your  liver  has  led 
you  to  the  study  of  food-stuffs.  On  the  third  dav 
after  Dr.  Chubb  started,  I  felt  the  premonitions  of  one 
of  inv  cardiac  spasms,  and.  according  to  the  advice 
that  he  left  me  in  case  of  an  emergency,  I  increased 
the  dose  of  muffins.  This  rtep  on  my  part  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  violent  palpitation  of  the  heart  and  by  a 
distinct  sensation  of  Bickness.  I  took  my  temperature 
immediately  and  found  that   it  had  gone  down  one 

point.  Becoming  alarmed,  I  had  PeCOUTSe  to  mv  vol- 
ume of  the  "Universal  Doctor,"  and  there  found  that 
the  symptoms  evident  in  me  were,  without  doubt,  due  to 
insufficient  nourishment    On  this  I  referred  to  my  li>t 

I  68  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

of  food-stuffs,  but  could  find  nothing  I  had  not  tried. 
Benger's  Food,  grape-nuts,  brandy,  plasmon,  malt- 
essence,  and  Valentine- juice  have,  as  you  will  remem- 
ber, all  failed  with  me.  But  as  fate,  or  rather  Provi- 
dence would  have  it,  just  at  this  moment  of  my  need  the 
door  opened  and  Mademoiselle  came  in  with  the  new 
number  of  the  "Respirator."  I  felt  that  it  was  posi- 
tively sent  me,  and  I  was  not  disappointed ;  for  the  first 
thing  my  eye  fell  on  was  an  article  signed  "Floss  Redi- 
viva"  upon  Spasmon,  a  recently  invented  food-stuff 
which  seems  to  be  infallible  in  its  effects.  The  strange 
thing  is  that  Floss  herself  suffered  from  the  self -same 
symptoms  as  I  do,  and,  after  being  next  door  to  death, 
she  gained  four  stone  in  five  weeks  from  merely  taking 
it  regularly  between  meals.  Without  loss  of  time  I  sent 
off  Mademoiselle  to  the  Depot  and  she  brought  me  back 
a  bundle  of  the  most  striking  "Spasmon  Literature." 
Floss  is  by  no  means  alone  in  her  experience  and  Spas- 
mon has  helped  hundreds.  There  is  an  extremely  inter- 
esting jockey  who  trained  for  and  won  the  Derby 
purely  upon  Spasmon  Cornflour,  and  a  poor  clergy- 

[69] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

man  who  actually  PO<k  from  London  to  Bath  upon  one 

of  Spasmon  Chocolate*  I  thought  it  best  to  sift 
tin-  matter  thoroughly  and  Bee  thai  there  was  do  impos- 
ture,——you  know  how  incredulous  I  am — BO  I  wrote 
straight  off  to  the  jockey,  the  only  person  who  gave 

an  address,  and  begged  him  to  conic  and  Bee  me — of 

cour-<  pn  paying  hifl  fare  from  Surbiton.  I  made  the 
appointment  for  to-day  at  5.30,  my  best  hour,  and  I 
shall  thus  be  able  to  question  him  about  hifl  p  rsonal  ex- 
periences.   The  clergyman  unfortunately  only  Bigned 

himself  "Clericus,"  and  did  not  mention  where  he 
livid.  Meanwhile,  I  should  be  obliged  if  you  WOtdd 
ht  ft/r  fenaw  by  return  (1)  what  you  have  heard  of 
Spasmon,  (2)  whether  you  have  tried  it,  and  (;$)  what 
results  you  have  observed,  I  need  not  emphasise  the 
importance  of  a  full  and  Bpeedy   answer. 

You  might  at  tin-  Bame  time  tell  me  of  any  new  medi- 
cine  you  may  lately  have  come  across.  I  am  fully 
aware  that  the  modern  craze  is  for  a  garden  and  the 
acquisition  of  new   plants;  hut   I  >till  have  brains  and 

I  prefer  my  medicine-chest  as  far  more  useful  and  ra- 

170] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

tional.  A  new  tabloid  is  certainly  more  valuable  than 
an  ugly  little  Alpine  plant  that  you  can  hardly  see 
through  a  microscope.  I  trust  that  you  agree  with 
me,  and,  pray,  if  you  don't,  do  not  trouble  to  tell  me 
so.  Remember  to  write  at  once,  and  believe  me  to  re- 
remain,  your  affectionate  aunt, 

Louisa  Fitzwigan. 

Will  you  at  the  same  time  send  me  the  address  of 
the  shop  in  Piccadilly  where  you  get  your  marrons 
glacis?     I  find  they  do  me  so  much  good. 


[71] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


The  Hall,   Feversiiam-scr-Strand, 
October  ist,   1902. 

Mv  Deai  Aunt, — That  I  value  your  good  opinion 
I  scarcely  be  said;  but  to  mingle  it  with  disparaj 
menl  of  other  members  of  my  family  was  unnecessary, 
and  even  thoughtless.     My  Sisters,  thougb  certainly 

not  highly  educated  women,  are,  I  gather,  quite  able  to 
hold  their  own  in  the  intellectual  circles  of  Torquay, 
and  I  understand  that  their  Vicar  considers  them  ex- 
cellent district-visitors.  Poor  George  is  gone  where 
his  failings  will  not  be  called  in  question;  and,  though 
his  marriage  was  certainly  so  improvident  as  to  be 
almost  inconsistent  with  sanity,  it  is  only  fair  to  re- 
member that  he  paid  a  lifelong  penalty  for  it.  I  do 
not  scruple  to  say  (in  the  confidence  of  family  affec- 
tion) that  I  always  considered  his  wife  one  of  the  most 
objectionable  people  I  ever  encountered,  and  some  re- 
cent correspondence  with  her  has  not  tended  to  modify 
that   opinion. 

[  ra  1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

Of  the  fatal  folly  of  neglecting  one's  health,  poor 
George's  premature  death  was  indeed  a  striking  illus- 
tration;  but  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  his  Vicarage 
was  considerably  below  the  level  of  the  churchyard, 
and  that  his  drinking-water  was  unquestionably  im- 
pregnated by  emanations  from  that  very  undesirable 
neighbour.  When  we  further  remember  that  he  was  a 
teetotaller,  and  that  his  means  did  not  permit  of  a  very 
nourishing  diet,  perhaps  we  should  rather  wonder  why 
he  lived  so  long.  For  my  own  part,  I  do  not  scruple  to 
avow  that  from  my  earliest  days  the  maintenance  of  my 
health  has  seemed  to  me  a  sacred  duty.  That  view 
of  it  was  impressed  upon  me  by  those  excellent  parents 
of  whom — pardon  my  filial  tenderness — you  speak  a 
little  lightly,  and  I  have  ever  endeavoured  to  act  upon 
their  precepts.  I  was  brought  up  on  cod-liver  oil, 
bark,  and  port  wine.  Summer  and  winter,  I  have 
always  worn  flannel  next  the  skin.  I  have  invariably 
slept  with  one  hot-water  bottle  at  my  feet  and  another 
in  the  abdominal  region,  and  in  damp  weather  I  have 
relied  a  good  deal  on  goloshes.     Whether  this  plan 

[73] 


THE    WOODHOUSE   CORRESPONDENCE 

of  life  ran  be  justly  or  even  decently  described  as 

"coddling"  is  a  question  which  I  decline  to  argue. 
Your  next  point  i^  of  more  practical  importance.  You 
Bp  ik  of  "plain  food,"  and  thifl  i-  a  Mibject  on  which 
I  entertain  very  definite  views.  When  I  read  the  Life 
of  Archbishop  Benson  (admittedly  a  man  of  ability 
and  character),  I  was  struck  by  his  admiration  of  "a 
plain  hut  perfect  table."  The  words  made  an  indelible 
impression  on  my  mind.  It  is  seldom  that  a  vital  and 
far-reaching  truth  can  be  condensed  into  so  terse  a 
phrase.  My  experience  exactly  tallies  with  the  Arch- 
bishop's. My  constitution  imperatively  demands  that 
my  diet  should  be  "plain  but  perfect."  I  must  not  be 
kept  waiting  for  dinner  a  moment  after  eight  o'clock, 
and  dinner  must  begin  with  three  tablespoons  of  con- 
somme, very  clear  and  very  hot.  Hors  (Vnurrcs  are 
not  allowed  to  appear  at  my  table.  Fish — a  good  deal 
of  it,  and  of  the  best  quality — is  indispensable.  It  is 
a  great  regret  to  me  that,  in  middle  life,  I  feel  a  cer- 
tain repulsion  from  the  greased  paper  in  which  red 
mullet  i>  encased  ;  for  it  i>  a  fish  which,  in  days  of  more 

\~i  i 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

vigorous  health,  was  an  unfailing  restorative.  White- 
bait suits  me  if  it  is  very  crisp  and  quite  small ;  but 
perhaps  crimped  salmon  is  the  most  easily  assimilated 
of  all  fish-foods.  I  always  insist  on  Christchurch  sal- 
mon, and  I  lay  stress  on  the  crimping.  (The  pseudo- 
humanitarian  outcry  against  cruelty  to  the  fish  may 
be  dismissed  as  the  merest  cant.)  In  the  question  of 
entrees,  I  find  nature  less  exacting.  All  entrees  are 
wholesome,  provided  that  they  are  the  best  specimens 
of  their  kind.  A  bad  entree  should  be  avoided  like  a 
pestilence. 

Joints  should,  I  think,  be  eschewed  by  all  who  have 
to  bear  the  burden  of  a  delicate  digestion ;  and  a  beef- 
steak is  quite  as  dangerous  as  a  cannon-ball.  A  boiled 
chicken  is  very  safe,  and  sea-kale  is  a  valuable  adjunct. 
Here,  again,  I  plead  for  plainness.  White  sauce  and 
slices  of  lemon  are  as  unwholesome  as  they  are  vulgar. 
All  game  is  wholesome — indeed,  a  wild  pheasant  (on 
no  account  a  tame  pheasant  fed  on  Indian  corn),  fol- 
lowing strong  consomme  and  the  right  fish,  and  itself 
succeeded  by  a  light  savoury,  often  constitutes  my  din- 

[75] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

oer.  Tlu-  date  reminds  me  thai  my  shooting  is  Let,  sub- 
jecl  only  to  the  requirements  of  my  own  table;  and  I 
often  regret  that  this  arrangement  precludes  me  from 
the-  happiness  of  Bending  game  to  my  relations. 

Such,  then,  is  my  general  doctrine  of  diet.  To  fol- 
low it  out  in  detail,  and  to  supplement  it  with  tl 
about  breakfast  and  luncheon,  and  the  choice  of  bever- 
_■  s  would  carrv  me  far  beyond  the  limits  of  a  letter. 
And.  as  it  is,  I  see  that  I  have  not  left  myself  much 
>}>ace  for  an  adequate  appreciation  of  the  distressing 
-ymptoms  which  you  describe  in  your  own  case.  Let 
me,  then,  say  at  once,  and  briefly,  that  neryous  ill:  ss 
is  a  subject  with  which  I  have  no  acquaintance,  and 
not  much  sympathy.  A  free  use  of  mineral  wafc  re, 
coupled  with  a  light  but  nutritious  diet,  is  the  remedy 
which,  basing  myself  on  my  own  experience,  T  ahl 
recommend.  With  your  tendency  to  palpitation,  prob- 
ably the  diet  should  be  more  light  than  generous.  As 
to  Spasmon  biscuits  and  the  like,  I  will  only  say, 
shortly  but  emphatically,  that  I  set  my  face  like  a  flint 
against  all  quackery.    Mr-.  Watkins  shall  answer  your 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

question  about  marrons  glacts.  My  own  dinner  ends 
with  the  savoury:  up  to  that  point  everything  is  or- 
dered by  myself ;  after  it  I  trust  to  the  servants. 

I  am  writing  in  haste  to  save  the  post,  but  I  cannot 
forbear  to  express  my  satisfaction  that  you  do  not 
mention  among  your  man}'  ailments  paralysis  agitans. 
A  rumour  reached  me  that  one  of  your  visitors  had 
been  much  alarmed  by  seeing  you  under  an  attack  of 
that  distressing  complaint.  After  what  you  tell  me,  I 
am  inclined  to  connect  the  symptoms  with  the  muffin 
treatment.  How  people,  beyond  their  first  youth,  can 
play  such  tricks  with  their  health  is  to  me  inconceiv- 
able.— In  haste,  your  affectionate  nephew, 

Algernon. 

To-morrow  I  accomplish  my  fiftieth  year.  It  is  a 
great  happiness  that  one  of  my  dear  aunts  is  still 
spared  to  me.  I  sincerely  wish  her  better  health,  and 
a  wiser  regimen. 


[77] 


CHAPTER   VI 


CHAPTER  VI 

Bute  Street.  \V.. 
October  3d. 

MY  DEAR  NEPHEW,— I  will  not  waste 
time  in  thanking  you  for  your  letter,  as 
it  gave  me  no  answer  to  an}'  of  the  ques- 
tions that  I  put  to  you.  What  it  did 
give  me  was  a  detailed  account  of  your  own  regime, 
which,  though  no  doubt  exceedingly  interesting  to 
yourself,  was  not  of  the  slightest  use  to  me,  unless  to 
explain  more  certainly  what  I  have  always  suspected — 
the  real  reason  of  your  biliousness.  Crimped  salmon 
is  enough  to  cause  dyspepsia  in  an  ostrich,  and  it  is 
onlv  your  mother's  constitution  which  could  have  di- 
gested it  for  so  long.  That  you  are  alive,  and  evi- 
dently enjoying  the  good  things  of  this  life,  is,  I  am 
thankful  to  observe,  sufficient  proof  of  your  splendid 

[81] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

strength.  Long  may  it  continue!  As  for  me,  it  is 
not  on  tlic  tilings  of  thi>  earth  that  u\y  affections  are 
-<  t  ;  my  cardiac  delicacy  lias  long  since  turned  them 
eleewhere,  and  taught  me  that  comfort  Lb  not  to  be 

found  in  thifl  life.  \'tt ,  though  uc  arc  hut  sojourners 
here,  it  is  our  duty  to  resign  ourselves  and  to  live:  and 

even  a  muffin,  eaten  in  submission  to  a  higher  law,  does 

(as  Dr.  Chubb  so  beautifully  says)  become  an  act  of 
spiritual  discipline.     As  for  the  paralysis  agitant  of 

which  you  speak,  it  is  known  to  be  a  purely  hysterical 
complaint,  from  which,  I  need  hardly  add,  I  have 
never  suffered.  The  nervous  tremblings  which  attack 
me  when  anybody  talks  to  me  too  long,  or  dwells  upon 
distressing  subjects,  particularly  their  own  illnesses  or 
troubles,  proceed  from  a  spasmodic  debility  of  the 
heart  acting  upon  a  highly  sensitive  nature,  and  can 
alone  be  remedied  by  frequent  nourishment.  Hut  this 
is  only  part  of  the  trial  which  has  been  sent  me  and  I 
trust  I  know  how  to  meet  it. 

I  -hould  not  be  writing  to  you  so  soon  again  for  the 
mere  purposes  of  a  correspondence  which   can   hardly 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

be  said  to  be  pleasurable  to  me ;  but  I  think  you  may 
be  of  use  to  me  in  a  serious  predicament  that  has  arisen. 
Whatever  your  indifference  to  my  symptoms  (and 
how  should  the  robust  understand  them?),  you  will 
hardly  fail  to  remember  that  a  Companion  has  always 
been  essential  to  me — one  who  will  take  from  my 
shoulders  such  domestic  responsibilities  (both  as  to 
housekeeping  and  otherwise)  as,  in  my  case,  would  be 
fatal ;  a  lady,  too,  of  good  manners,  good  health,  and 
good  temper,  qualified  to  read  aloud  as  long  as  I  wish 
it.  You  will  also  recall  Mademoiselle,  who  has  hitherto 
fulfilled  these  easy  requirements.  The  other  day  (that 
of  the  fog)  was  one  of  my  worst  days,  and  I  found 
that  I  had  no  novel  to  amuse  me.  Devotional  litera- 
ture and  novels — if  possible,  French  ones — are  the 
only  books  my  health  now  permits  me  to  read  and  I  was 
anxious  to  send  to  Mudie's  at  once.  My  butler,  as  you 
know,  has  been  with  me  for  twenty  years  and,  natu- 
rally, at  his  age,  refuses  to  go  on  any  errands — indeed, 
with  my  strong  principle  of  regard  for  old  servants, 
I  should  never  ask  him  to  do  so.     The  poor  young 

[83] 


THE    WOODHOl'SK    (  OKHESPONDENI  1. 

man   has  an   affection   of  the   larynx    which   makes 

exposure  to  fog  perilous  for  him.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances,  I.  of  course,  requested  Mademoiselle,  who 
u  as  strong  as  a  horses  to  do  t hi-  for  me.  What  tras 
1 1 in  surprise  irhen  she  objected,  alleging  s  cold  (quite 
invisible  to  others)  as  her  reason  and  declaring,  with 
the  most   unseemly  obstinacy,    that    the    fog    would 

make  it  iTOrse;  and  this,  though  she  Saw  that  I  had  tin- 
first   symptoms  of  one  «>f  mv  Ik  art   attacks.      I  think   I 

may  say  with  truth  that  I  am  indulgent,  perhaps  ov<  r- 
indulgent,  to  the  faults  of  others,  both  my  principles 

and    disposition     inclining    mc    towards    nn  rc\  .       Hut 

th<  re  is  one  fault  with  which  I  do  not  wish  to  have  pa- 
tience, and  that    is  valetudinarianism-    the  WOTSt    sort 

of  selfishness,  as  Dr.  Chubb  has  often  said  to  m< 
Bid  ^.  I  bave  always  beard  that  fog  is  really  wholesome 
people,  I  therefore  insisted  on  Mademoi- 
selle's instant  obedience.  Would  you  believe  that  when 
she  returned  shi  pretended,  with  an  unpardonable  dis- 
play of  temper,  that  she  had  lost  her  voice,  and  she 
even  refused  to  read  to  met    So\  only  this,  hut  when 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

I  summoned  her  a  second  time  I  was  told  that  she  had 
retired  to  bed,  and  had  actually  had  the  face  to  send 
for  the  doctor!  I  make  but  one  rule  for  my  depend- 
ants, and  that  is  that  no  one  in  the  house  may  send  for 
or  consult  a  physician  without  my  consent.  I  know 
too  well  that  there  is  no  habit  so  pernicious  as  that  of  a 
growing  dependence  upon  a  medical  man.  The  woman 
who  could  act  thus  behind  my  back  would  certainly  do 
worse,  and  I  therefore  gave  Mademoiselle  notice  in 
writing  without  further  loss  of  time.  Of  course  she 
must  stay  here  until  I  am  suited,  but  she  shall  then 
leave  my  house  at  once — and,  meanwhile,  I  am  most 
disagreeably  placed,  as  she  refuses  to  rise  from  her  bed 
and  has  evidently  persuaded  the  doctor  to  say  she  has 
a  species  of  bronchitis. 

Can  you  help  me,  dear  Algernon,  in  this  emergency 
by  recommending  any  suitable  lady  among  your  nu- 
merous acquaintance?  I  am  induced  to  apply  to  you  by 
the  remembrance  that  you  once  talked  of  some  such 
person  whom  you  were  anxious  to  place.  I  should  like 
her  to  be  quite  young — of  an  age  when  she  can  still 

[85] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENT  E 

b  completely  moulded  by  me  (Mademoiselle  was  much 
too  old  )  :  she  must  also,  in  addition  to  the  usual  quali- 
fications of  sobriety  and  respectability)  b  thoroughly 
trilling  and  healthy,  sufficiently  plain,  and  accustomed 
to  read  aloud  on  end.  She  Bhould  have  a  pleasant 
voice,  and  no  religious  opinions.  In  return  for  her 
n  rvices  I  would  give  her  £40  a  year,  her  trash,  and  all 
nicfa  outdoor  garments  of  my  own  ai  I  discard;  the 
rest  go  to  my  maid.  It  Lb  needlesi  to  emphasise  the 
fact  thai  a  thorough  lady  Lb  essentia]  to  me. 

Kindly  answer  me  by  return — as  succinctly  and  with 
as  little  n  f<  n  ace  to  your  own  constitution  ai  it  possi- 
ble.    I  am  in  the  midst  of  a  Bevere  spasm,  due,  as  I 

d  not  explain,  to  M  idemoiseuVl  conduct  ;  and  tins 

letter  lia^  been  a  sad  strain  upon  my  strength. — Be- 
lieve me  to  remain,  your  affectionate  aunt, 

Louns  FrnwioAK. 
Your  nephew  Prank  announces  lii-  return  from  the 

Continent  and  proposes  visiting  me.     I  fear  lie  ifl  but  I 

rolling  -tone. 

[86] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


The  Hall,  Feversham-sur-Strand, 
October  &th,  1902. 

My  Dear  Aunt, — The  respect  due  to  your  ad- 
vanced age  and  many  infirmities  makes  me  anxious  to 
avoid  even  the  appearance  of  harshness,  but  I  will 
frankly  say  that,  were  you  a  younger  woman,  or  in 
better  health,  I  should  either  have  ignored  your  letter 
or  have  used  great  plainness  of  speech  in  reply.  The 
question  of  diet  (though  introduced  by  you)  is  now, 
I  understand,  dismissed  from  our  correspondence,  and 
you  will  not,  I  am  sure,  wish  me  to  engage  in  a  futile 
debate  as  to  the  relative  gravity  of  our  respective 
symptoms.  At  the  same  time,  you  must  not  imagine 
that  I  for  an  instant  accept  your  theory  of  my  con- 
stitution and  its  ailments. 

It  is  idle  to  quote  the  oracles  of  Dr.  Chubb.  I  have 
a  rooted  objection  to  all  dogmatism,  whether  clerical 
or  medical,  and  greatly  resent  the  assumption  of  au- 

[87] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENT  i; 

Ihorit \  l>y  those  whom  I  pay.  I  distinctly  recollect 
my  strong  feeling  of  displeasure  when  the  late  Sir 
Andrei  Clark,  after  dissuading  me  from  eating  cur- 
ried lobster  at  breakfast,  said,  "1  seek  to  impose  a  yoke 

upon  you,  that  you  may  be  truly  fr©  .""      It'  I  Wi  re  to 

characterise  this  language  as  soli  mn  claptrap,  I 
should  Dot  be  exci  eding  the  bounds  of  fair  criticism. 

You  do  me  do  more  than  justice  when  you  assume 
that  I  shall  recoiled  the  fact  thai  for  some  time  past 

you  have  had  a  Companion.  You,  on  your  part,  will 
no  doubt  remember  thai  I  took  exception  to  your  habit 

of   bringing   her    (as   well   as   a   maid  and  a   footman) 

irith  you  when  you  came  to  stay  here*  My  iugg 
tion  that  she  should  l>e  left  at  home  led  to  a  cessa- 
tion of*  those  visits  which)  on  other  grounds,  I  had  irel- 
eomed.  Into  the  merits  of  the  dispute  between  yourself 
and  Mademoiselle,  I  am  Dot  disposed  to  inter.  Had  I 
the  opportunity  of  hearing  that  unfortunate  woman's 
version,  it  would  probably  throw  a  different  1 1 <j:1  it  on 
the  transaction.    I  hope  you  will  not  deem  it  offensive 

if  I  say  that  a  solitary  and  S4  If  centred  life  ifl  \.  rv  apt 

I  88  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

to  engender  an  unreasonable  and  exacting  temper  in 
our  treatment  of  dependants. 

My  own  case  is  very  different.     Debarred  from  the 
pursuits  of  active  life,  I  have  long  found  my  chief 
happiness  in  the  endeavour  to  help  others  ;  and  I  should 
be  glad  if  I  could  extricate  you  from  any  domestic 
difficulty,  even  though  I  might  suspect  that  it  was  in 
part  of  your  own  making.     On  learning,  therefore, 
that  3'ou  required  a  new   Companion,  I  immediately 
turned  my  thoughts  to  a  quarter  which  seemed  not  un- 
likely to  supply  what  you  want.     You  write,  rather 
vaguely,  about  a  "person  whom  I  am  anxious  to  place." 
I  know,  of  course,  that  even  the  best  memories  cannot 
be  preserved  intact  into  extreme  old  age,  but  I  should 
have  thought  that  vou  would  remember  at  least  the 
names  (if  not  the  wants)  of  your  own  great-nieces. 
Mv  poor  brother  George  (who  made,  you  will  recollect, 
that  very  undesirable  marriage)  left  his  widow  and 
daughters  wholly  unprovided  for.     My  sister-in-law, 
looking  about  for  some  opening  for  her  girls  (who,  I 
am  told,  are  both  plain  and  uneducated),  suggested 

[89] 


THE  WOODHOUSE  CORRESPONDENCE 

that  one  of  them  might  l»  able  to  act  as  Companion 
and  lee  tries;  and,  curiously  enough,  she  mentioned 
vour  name  in  tliis  connection,  Is  it  possible  that  she 
had  Mime  private  ondentanding  with  Mademoiselle? 
I  should  not  be  surprised  if  it  were  so,  for  reduc*  d  cir- 
cumstancet  have  brought  her  into  very  strange  society. 
But,  be  this  as  it  may,  soon  after  the  receipt  of  your 
letter  I  communicated  Its  contents  to  my  Bister-in-law, 
who  to-day  telegraphs  as  follows:  "Lilian  enchanted 
if  acceptable.  All  coming  up  winter  season.  Lodg- 
ing till  Mat  procured-*1  If  this  suggestion  commends 
itself  to  you,  I  must  leave  you  to  settle  all  particu- 
lan  with  Mrs.  George  Woodhousc :  and  I  must  be  dis- 
tinctly understood  to  accept  no  re$potmbUity  for  the 
character,  qualifications,  or  conduct  of  my  niece. — 
Your  affectionate  nephew, 

A.  W.-W. 


\90] 


CHAPTER  VII 


CHAPTER  VII 

Anhalt-Dessau  Gardens.  Campden  Hill 

(for  the  last  time). 
November  7th. 

MY  DEAR  GODFATHER,— May  I  send 
you  this  one  line  to  tell  you  that,  thanks 
to  the  encouragement  you  gave  me — the 
words  that  came  even  as  light  to  one 
walking  in  the  wilderness — I  have  been  able  to  fulfil 
my  Aim?  I  am  free.  I  am  not  one  of  many  words, 
but  let  me  tell  you  only  this,  I  am  the  better  for  having 
known  you.  Life — yes,  and  beyond  Life — will  never 
be  quite  the  same  again.  Some  little  time  ago  your 
sister-in-law  wrote  to  me  from  Wales,  saying  she  did 
so  by  your  advice,  and,  after  many  too  kind  allusions 
to  my  gifts,  which  I  should  blush  to  repeat  to  you,  she 
opened  out  her  scheme  of  coming  to  live  in  London 
next  spring,  and  of  sharing  a  flat  with  some  artistic 

[93] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

lady  who  would  direct  her  literary  taste  and  under- 
take the  half  of  the  expenses.  She  mentioned  two 
daughters,  but  Baid  that  they  would  probably  both  be 
absent  the  whole  time  of  her  tenancy,  and  she  added — 
what  made  me  fed  a  sense  of  Fellow-Soulship — that 
she  could  not  live  With  the  ordinary  conventional 
woman.  What  she  heard  of  me  from  you  had  made 
her  feel  that,  could  we  but  come  together,  a  new 
chapter  of  life  might  open  for  both  of  us.  I  felt,  too, 
that  the  advantages  she  pointed  out  were  such  as  could 
not  be  neglected;  for,  as  she  truly  Bays,  however  free 
one  is  oneself  from  the  trammels  of  common  custom, 
one's  poor  parents  are  not  so;  and  who  knows  better 
than  I  how  tightly  they  are  still  swaddled  in  the  narrow 
tape  of  blind  prejudice?  With  great  sense,  she  saw 
that  my  father  would  be  much  more  likely  to  approve 
of  my  departure  from  the  Ruck  and  from  my  home 
if  she  were  there  as  a  (merely  nominal)  chaperone. 
And,  indeed,  she  has  proved  to  be  right.  My  interview 
With  my  father  has  been  more  successful  than  I  could 
have  dared  to  hope.     Surely  the  tiny  seed  may  sprout 

I  M  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

and  spring  even  upon  the  stony  soil  of  red  tape, 
and  the  large  Aim  may  help  the  narrow  mind.  Not 
only  did  he  consent  to  my  going,  but  (though  you 
may  not  believe  it)  he  seemed  glad  to  do  so,  and  he 
himself  suggested  giving  me  an  allowance  which  I 
could  not  have  expected  from  his  means.  I  told  him 
of  my  resolve  to  take  nothing  of  a  pecuniary  nature 
from  him  and  to  live  for  Art's  sake ;  but  he  laughed 
(it  was  the  only  moment  at  which  the  Philistine 
peered  forth),  and  said  I  should  be  nearer  the  mark 
if  I  talked  of  dying  for  Art's  sake,  and  that  Art 
was  one  thing  and  my  Novel  was  another.  It  was 
of  no  use  to  explain  his  error  to  him  and  I  merely 
asked  to  have  time  for  reflection.  It  is  unfortunate 
that  my  poor  father  can  never  refrain  from  a 
humourless  facetiousness. 

"Reflect  as  long  as  you  like,"  he  said,  "but,  believe 
me,  you  won't  get  any  food  out  of  the  publishers 
excepting  humble  pie,  and  that  is  not  very  satis- 
fying." 

I  merely  repeat  his  remarks  to  show  you  the  sort 

[95] 


THE    WOODHorsi;    CORRESPONDENCE 

of  mental  level  from  which  I  am  escaping.  After 
due  consideration  in  mv  own  room,  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that,  since  giving  enlarges  the  smaller 
nature,  it  would  he  lelfisb  to  refuse  his  soul  the  grace 
of  a  generous  deed — and  that  chivalry  lay  in  accep- 
tance. I  have  therefore  fallen  in  with  his  offer. 
It  wa->  well  that  this  was  .arranged,  for  only  two  days 
later  I  got  a  telegram  from  Mrs.  Quintilian  Wood- 
house  begging  me  to  look  for  a  flat  at  once,  as  she 
irmi  coming  to  town  for  the  winter.  I  believe  that 
I  have  actually  found  one — 3f  Aboukir  Mansions, 
I'ictermaritzburg  Grove,  West  Kensington;  but  I  will 
let  you  know  definitely  in  a  few  days. 

Again  let  me  bless  you  for  what  you  have  done 
for  me.  I  am  re-reading  Daniel  Deronda,  and  I 
cannot  but  trace  the  resemblance  between  Daniel  and 
you.  Did  you  ever  know  George  Eliot,  and  has  she 
thus  tried  to  catch  your  portrait,  I  wonder? — Your 
thankful  godchild, 

Elaine. 

[96] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


The  Hall,  Feversham-sur-Strand, 
November  10th,  1902. 

Dear  Miss  Ellen, — You  know  me  well  enough 
to  be  sure  that  I  should  not  willingly  say  anything 
which  might  tend  to  discourage  you,  or  to  dash  your 
hopes.  But  I  feel  constrained  to  observe  that,  in 
dating  your  letter  from  your  father's  house  "for  the 
last  time"  you  seem  to  be  unduly  sanguine.  You  do 
not,  I  think,  know  my  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  G.  Wood- 
house,  except  by  correspondence.  Personal  inter- 
course is  a  very  different  matter.  To  live  under  the 
same  roof  with  even  one's  nearest  relations  is  some- 
times, as  you  know,  a  severe  strain  on  one's  endur- 
ance; and  to  shux-e  the  expenses  of  housekeeping 
with  one  of  whose  character  and  idiosyncrasies  you 
know  nothing  seems  to  me  an  experiment  fraught 
with  peril.  It  may  succeed,  but  much  more  probably 
it  will  fail ;  and  in  that  case  you  will  have  once  more 
to  date  your  letters  from  your  father's  house.     Under 

[97] 


THE    WOODHOl  SE    CORRESPONDENCE 

these  circumstances,  I,  u  your  friend,  should  depre- 
cate aiiv  undue  manifestation  of  joy  on  the  attain- 
ment of  what  you  regard  M  freedom. 

I  note  thai  my  sister-in-law  lias  actually  taken  a 
flat  for  the  winter.  As  you  will  necessarily  be  in 
Correspondence   with   her,  and  as   I   have  little   leisure 

for  superfluous  letter-writing,  I   should  be  obliged 

if  you  would  tell  her  that  I  am  prepared  to  make 
some  contribution  towards  the  furnishing  of  the  flat. 
My  housekeeper  tells  me  that  there  is  a  good  dial 
of  furniture  put  away  in  the  lumber-room  in  Port- 
land Place. 

My  dear  wife  was  in  later  years  a  good  deal  bitten 
by  the  aesthetic  craze  (for  such  I  esteem  it),  and 
insisted  on  covering  the  drawing-room  walls  with 
Morris's  papers.  Her  health  was  at  that  time  so  pre- 
carious that  I  felt  bound  to  humour  her  every  whim; 
but  I  soon  had  occasion  to  regret  my  compliance. 
Ai  soon  as  the  rooms  were  re-papered,  she  declared 
that  the  furniture  (excellent  of  its  style  and  date) 
was  unsuitable  to  the  paper,  which,  she  said,  required 

I  98  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

sea-green  plush  and  white  paint.  A  large  horsehair 
sofa  and  a  complete  set  of  mahogany  chairs  were 
therefore  discarded,  and  the  curtains,  of  crimson 
rep  with  handsome  gilt  cornices,  made  way  for  what 
my  poor  wife  called  an  "art  fabric."  My  house- 
keeper tells  me  that  all  these  things  are  in  good  pres- 
ervation, and  I  shall  be  happy  to  lend  them  to  my 
sister-in-law  for  use  in  her  flat  during  the  winter. 
She,  of  course,  must  undertake  to  fetch  them  from 
Portland  Place,  and  send  them  back,  and  she  will  nat- 
urally be  answerable  for  any  damage  which  they  may 
sustain.  I  am  told  that  life  in  a  flat  is,  in  all  respects, 
very  rough. 

Beyond  this  contribution,  I  fear  that  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  do  much  in  furtherance  of  the  scheme  of 
joint  housekeeping,  to  which  (rashly,  as  it  seems  to 
me)  you  and  Mrs.  G.  Woodhouse  have  committed 
yourselves.  Of  course  you  acted  rightly  in  accept- 
ing your  father's  offer  of  an  allowance ;  but,  as  I  said 
when  you  first  consulted  me,  I  should  regard  it  as  an 
indelicacy  to  intervene  in  the  pecuniary  relations  be- 

[99] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

fcween  you  and  your  parents.  In  these  matters  con- 
sanguinity is  the  only  possible  ground  of  appeal,  and 
even  the  claims  of  consanguinity  are  often  over- 
strained. I  have  reason  to  believe  that  one  of  mj 
nephews  will  soon  be  soliciting  mj  assistance  in  some 
professional  enterprise,  and  this  fact  makes  circum- 
spection in  money  matters  even  more  than  usually 
ssary.—  Tours  Bincerelj  attached, 

Algernon   Wkntwokth-Woodhot'se. 

P.S. — I  had  no  acquaintance  with  the  late  Mrs. 
Cross,  whom  her  admirers  pedantically  called  "George 
Eliot."  Your  father  professed  to  admire  her  writ- 
ings, and  once  told  me  that  I  resembled  one  of  the 
characters  in  Daniel  Deronda.  I  never  read  the  book, 
but,  if  I  remember  aright,  the  character  in  question 
WSJ  called  Grandcourt,  or  some  such  name. 

A.   W.-W. 


[100] 


CHAPTER  VIII 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Bachelors'  Club,  Piccadilly,  W., 
December  ISt. 

MY  DEAR  UNCLE,— I  was  ever  so  sorry 
to  hear  the  other  day  from  Aunt  Maude 
that  you  were  rather  seedy.  I  hope  you 
are  quite  fit  again  by  this  time.  I  won- 
der if  it  would  be  convenient  to  you  if  I  ran  down 
to  Feversham  for  two  or  three  days,  somewhere  be- 
tween now  and  February  1st?  There  are  two  or  three 
things  which  I  want  to  consult  you  about,  and,  as  I 
know  you  are  always  pretty  busy,  I  don't  like  to 
bother  you  with  unnecessary  letters.  Perhaps  you 
saw  in  the  Times,  a  short  time  back,  that  I  had  got 
called  to  the  Bar  at  last.  I  am  thankful  to  have  done 
with  exams,  for  ever,  but  had  to  fork  out  £100,  which 
is  rather  a  big  tooth.     You  know  you  always  were 

[  103] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

wry  keen  that  I  should  have  a  profession,  and  cer- 
tainly you  were  quite  right.  A  fellow  without  a  pro- 
f<  —ion  i>  always  considered  a  "Walter."  But  the 
difference  between  the  Bar  and  other  professions  is 
that  one  can  t  live  on  it,  even  partially.  I  don't  sup- 
})<»-«  I  shall  get  a  brief  for  ten  years  to  come,  and 
I'm  Mire  I  don't  know  what  BOrl  of  a  job  I  should 
make  of  it  if  I  got  it.  Meanwhile,  as  you  know,  I 
haven't  got  much  of  my  own,  and  I  find  that  the  rent 
of  my  rooms,  my  Club  subscriptions,  etc.,  make  a 
pretty  good  hole  in  what  I  have.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances, I  am  thinking  of  trying  my  hand  at  lit- 
erature. I  used  to  write  a  good  deal  in  the  Harrovian 
when  I  was  at  Harrow,  and  I  have  got  an  unfinished 
novel  which  the  editors  wouldn't  put  in,  because  they 
thought  it  was  too  full  of  racing,  and  would  encour- 
age fellows  to  bet.  I  have  thought  about  finishing  it, 
and  sending  it  to  one  of  the  monthly  magazines  ;  or  I 
might  do  some  social  intelligence  for  one  of  the 
Society  papers.  I  really  like  writing,  and  think 
I    could    make    something    of    it      Anyhow,    it    would 

f  104  1 


THE  WOODHOUSE  CORRESPONDENCE 

be  a  great  advantage  to  me  to  have  your  advice,  and 
perhaps,  if  you  approve,  some  introductions  to  your 
literary  friends. 

Aunt  Maude  seems  very  comfortably  settled  in  her 
flat.  It  is  rather  out  of  the  way,  but  all  right  when 
you  get  there.  She  is  delighted  with  your  red  cur- 
tains from  Portland  Place.  She  says  they  make  the 
rooms  look  "so  warm  and  cosy."  She  has  got  a  most 
extraordinary  girl  staying  with  her — Elaine  Thomp- 
son by  name — who  says  she  is  your  god-daughter.  I 
fancy  she  is  literary. — Your  affectionate  nephew, 

Frank  Murray. 


[105] 


THE    WUODIIOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


The  Hall,  Feversham-sur-Strand, 
December  3d,    1902. 

I)i  ar  Francis, —  (I  dislike  nicknames), — Yes,  I 
have  been  unwell — I  generally  am  unwell  in  change- 
able weather.  But  that  is  no  new  experience,  and  I 
have  DO  wrist  to  inflict  my  sufferings  upon  my  rela- 
tions. I  am  better  than  I  was  a  fortnight  ago,  but  by 
no  means  what  you  call  "fit."  (I  dislike  slang  as  much 
SJ  I  dislike  nicknames,  and  I  hold  that  both  have  a 
common   root — Vulgarity.) 

I   have   no   objection   to   your   coming  here   on   a 

short  visit,  if  you  really  wish  to  consult  me  on  busi- 

But,  of  course,  you  would  find  no  Christinas 

f\>tivities  here,  and  my  shooting  is  let.      I   -  ay  this 

on  account  of  your  pointed  allusion  to  February  1st. 

I  did  not  notice  the  announcement  that  you  had  been 

called  to  the  Bar.  and  I  am  relieved  to  learn  the  fact. 

Those    repeated    failures    in    your    examination    were 

reinelv  discreditable.     The  circumstance  of  having 

1 1"<;  1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

had  to  pay  £100  will  necessitate  a  very  strict  economy 
during  the  year  1903,  and  I  am  very  much  afraid  that 
your  habits  are  not  economical.  Is  the  Bachelors'  a 
cheap  Club?     And  have  you  more  than  one? 

Certainly  I  wished  you  to  have  a  profession.  A 
man  without  a  profession  (unless,  as  in  my  case,  he 
happens  to  have  considerable  means)  is  justly 
despised ;  but  as  to  the  choice  of  a  particular  pro- 
fession, being  of  age,  you  were  entirely  your  own 
master. 

Your  position  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  very 
unfortunate  one.  Your  father's  early  death  left  you 
under  the  sole  control  of  my  poor  sister,  who  did  her 
best  to  spoil  }Tou.  She  brought  you  up  in  a  way 
which  your  expectations  did  not  justify.  I  always 
thought  it  was  folly  to  send  you  to  Harrow.  The 
City  of  London  School,  or  Giggleswick,  where  you 
would  have  been  made  to  work  and  would  have  cost 
much  less,  would  have  been  in  every  way  more  suita- 
ble. At  Harrow,  where  the  fees  were  a  heavy  drain 
on  your  mother's  small   resources,  I  gathered  from 

[107] 


TIIK    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

vour  tutor  that  you  were  systematically  idle.  Dr. 
WYlldmi,  whom  I  used  to  meet  occasionally  at  my  Club, 
told  me  that  you  wasted  your  time  in  writing  aonsense 
for  the  school-newspaper,  instead  of  applying  your- 
self to  those  solid  studies  which  conduce  to  success  in 
after-life. 

Then  vour  going  abroad,  on  the  pretext  of  learn- 
ing modern  languages,  was,  in  my  opinion,  a  mere 
farce.  I  am  told  that  you  spent  all  your  time  in 
Alpine  climbing,  sketching,  and  teaching  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  Swiss  Pasteur  with  whom  you  livid,  to 
sing  comic  songs  in  English.  You  returned  to  Eng- 
land, as  you  left  it,  uneducated.  You  were  too  old 
to  begin  reading  for  the  Army,  and  moreover  your 
means  would  not  enable  you  to  live  in  any  tolerable 
regiment.  You  had  none  of  the  gift>  requisite  for 
business.  T  could  have  induced  my  good  friend,  the 
Bishop  of  Barchester,  to  ordain  you  without  a  degree 
(after  a  year  at  his  Theological  College),  but  you 
protested,  I  thought  rather  affectedly,  against  the 
idea   of    making    IToly   Orders   a    prof<  x<ion.      Under 

[108] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

these  circumstances,  the  Bar  seemed  the  only  possible 
resort.  It  is  certainly  more  respectable  than  idleness, 
but  I  do  not  in  the  least  anticipate  that  you  will  ever 
be  able  to  make  money  at  it.  It  is  unlucky  that  your 
mother  died  before  you  came  of  age,  for  a  small  inde- 
pendence is  one  of  the  greatest  misfortunes  which  can 
befall  a  young  man.  As  to  your  literary  projects,  I 
cannot  bring  myself  to  regard  them  very  seriously; 
but  you  can  tell  me  more  about  them  if  you  come 
here. 

Your  Aunt  Maude  knows  that  I  think  she  has  done 
an  exceedingly  foolish  thing  in  coming  to  London 
for  the  winter;  but  it  is  not  so  foolish  as  coming  for 
the  summer,  which  she  originally  proposed.  I  am 
exceedingly  annoyed  to  hear  that  she  calls  herself 
"Mrs.  Quintilian-Woodhouse."  Certainly  she  was 
born  Quintilian,  but  she  is  now  "Mrs.  George  Wood- 
house,"  and  nothing  more. 

Yes — Miss  Ellen  Thompson  is  my  god-daughter; 

and  I  am  bound  to  say  that  she  sometimes  presumes  too 

far    on    that    rather    shadowy     relationship. — Your 

affectionate  uncle,  A.  W.-W. 

[109] 


CHAPTER  IX 


CHAPTER  IX 

Bachelors'   Club, 
Christmas  Eve. 

MY  DEAR  UNCLE,— First  and  foremost, 
I  must  wish  you  all  the  best  wishes  of 
the  season.  I  am  afraid  your  Christ- 
mas can't  be  exactly  "merry."  It  must 
be  awful  work  keeping  Christinas  alone  in  that  big 
house ;  but  I  hope  you  will  contrive  to  be  happy  in  a 
quiet  way,  and  that  the  New  Year  may  bring  you 
better  health. 

Next,  I  must  tell  you  how  much  I  enjoyed  myself 
at  Feversham.  It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  have 
me,  especially  as  you  were  still  so  seedy.  I  really 
didn't  the  least  mind  having  no  shooting.  I'm  not 
dead  keen  on  it,  and  I  am  always  perfectly  happy  in 
the  country,  as  long  as  I  can  go  mouching  round  with 
a  stick  and  a  pipe  and  a  dog.     Then  that  day  with 

[113] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

the  hounds  was  ripping.     Now  hunting,  if  you  like, 

I  am  really  keen  about,  and  of  course  I  have  never 
had  much  of  it.  It  wai  great  luck  that  I  fixed  my 
vi>it  to  you  just  on  the  day  when  the  hounds  were 
meeting  actually  at  your  park-gat  <■<.  Hv  the  way, 
the  landlord  of  the  "Woodhousc  Arms"  wouldn't  let  me 
pay  for  my  gee,  but  said  that  you  kept  a  running 
account  with  him  for  flys,  etc.,  and  that  he  could 
charge  my  day's  hunting  to  you.  Of  course  I  told 
him  that  you  had  not  said  anything  about  that  to  me, 
and  that  I  had  no  right  to  expect  it  of  you ;  but  he 
insisted  that  it  was  all  right ;  and  I  can  only  say 
that  I  am  tremendously  obliged  to  you  for  giving  me  a 
real  treat. 

I  have  been  thinking  a  good  lot  over  that  long 
conversation  we  had  in  the  library.  I  feel  most 
awfully  the  truth  of  what  you  said.  It  is  quite  true 
that  I  have  wasted  my  time  most  shockingly  up  to 
date.  I  daresay,  if  I  had  been  sent  to  some  beastly 
school,  such  as  those  you  mentioned,  it  would  be  better 
for  me  now.     I  suppose  at  such  holes  as  those  there 

[114] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

is  nothing  to  do  but  work,  and  so  a  fellow  takes  to 
working  in  spite  of  himself.  Perhaps  if  I  had  been 
sent  there  I  should  have  been  no  end  of  a  swell  scholar 
long  before  this.  But  I  must  say  I  am  rather  glad 
my  poor  dear  mother  chose  Harrow  for  me,  all  the 
same.  I  had  a  really  good  time  there,  and  made  a 
lot  of  friends.  I  was  there  with  some  fellows  called 
Longman,  and  I  fancy  their  father  is  a  pub- 
lisher. I  am  thinking  of  looking  them  up  and  con- 
sulting them  about  my  literary  schemes. 

Of  course  it  is  not  very  good  form  for  a  fellow  to 
crack  up  his  own  performances,  but  I  can't  help 
thinking  if  you  had  let  me  read  you  my  unfinished 
MS.  of  "Girls  at  Goodwood,"  you  would  have  liked 
it.  It's  true  that  I  don't  know  very  much  about  girls, 
except  the  Miss  Posers  at  Harrow  (they  are  rippers — 
you  know  I  was  in  old  Poser's  House)  and  the  Pas- 
teur's daughters  in  Switzerland.  But  I  know  a 
goodish  deal  about  Goodwood;  and  you,  having  been 
married  and  all  that,  could  have  helped  me  about  the 
girls. 

[115] 


THE  WOODHOUSE  CORRESPONDENCE 

Of  OOline,  if  you  had  positively  said  that  you  dis- 
approval of  my  trying  my  hand  at  literature,  I  should 
not    haw  persevered  with  the  notion,  for  I  feel  how 

much  all  your  nephew ^  and  nieces  owe  to  you;  but,  as 
you  only  seem  doubtful  about  my  chance  of  succeed- 
ing, I  think  I  will  try  my  luck.  When  people  have 
such  bad  health  as  you,  I  fancy  it  makes  them  despon- 
dent about  other  people.  That  Miss  Thompson  whom 
I  met  at  Aunt  Maude's  seemed  a  rather  clever  girl, 
and  she  strongly  urged  me  to  finish  my  novel  and  have 
a  shy  with  it  at  one  of  the  magazines. — With  renewed 
good  wishes,  your  affectionate  nephew. 

Francis  Woodhotm.   Mt-rray. 

Did  you  know  that  my  second  name  was  Wood- 
houst?  My  mother  gave  it  me  because  she  had  such 
a  tremendous  feeling  about  her  family,  and  you. 


fur,! 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


Aboukir  Mansions,   Pietermaritzburg   Grove, 

December  23th 
(traditionally  called  Christmas  Day). 

Dear  Mr.  Murray, — Do  you  remember  a  visit  you 
lately  paid  at  a  flat  in  the  far  West  of  London?  If 
you  do,  you  may  also  recall  a  dark-haired  girl  who 
poured  out  tea.  She  has  not  forgotten ;  her  name  is 
Elaine,  and  it  is  she  who  is  now  writing  to  you. 

I  have  ever  warred  against  traditions.  They  are, 
so  I  hold,  the  iron  railings  which  narrow  the  forest  of 
the  individual  mind— the  iron  railings  which  enter 
into  the  soul — and  it  is  because  I  disbelieve  in  them 
that  I  offer  no  worldling's  excuse  for  writing  to  you 
now.  If  two  spirits  have  found  one  another,  why 
should  they  not  proclaim  the  truth  each  to  each?  And 
I  have  found  you.  As  you  entered,  more  profoundly 
still  as  you  left,  I  felt  a  current  flow  between  us— that 
mysterious  Something  which  makes  Woman  conscious 
that  she  has  thought  the  same  thoughts  as  Man.     So 

[117] 


Till:    WOODHOUSE   CORRESPONDENCE 

Strong  was  it  in  DM  thai  I  know  (how  I  cannot  tell 
vmi)  that  you  have  felt  it  too. 

A-   I  believe  I  told  you,  I  give  up  my  life  to  Art. 

I  write.  And  I  feel  instinctively  that  you  alone  can 
judge  truly  of  my  writing — that  you  alone  will  recog- 
nise my  Aims  and  understand  my  Style  and  help 
DM  onwards  in  the  thorny  path  of  truth.  Will  you  do 
this  for  me?  May  I  send  you  my  MSS.  (postage 
paid)?  They  consist  of  a  Realistico-Spiritual  Novel, 
"The  Woof -Warp,"  not  yet  finished,  and  a  small  (also 
incomplete)  volume  of  poems,  which,  till  this  moment, 
I  have  kept  secret  from  all.  It  is  called  "Bogwood 
and  Carbuncles — The  Versiclcs  of  a  Lonely  Spirit." 
It  is  very  small — it  is  very  personal — very  sincere. 
After  your  visit,  two  days  ago,  I  added  another  poem 
— which  I  venture  to  enclose. 

TO  THE  UNKNOWN  KNOWN. 

I  wandered  lonely  as  i   child 

Lost  on  life's  waste — with  fevered  feet. 

I  tasted  all  its  awful  Sweet; 

The  wind  of  Love  blew  fierce  and  wild. 

[118] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

I  heard  a  voice  across  the  deeps 
And  felt  'twas  thine,  I  know  not  why. 
I  had  no  language  but  a  cry: 
You  called  as  unto  one  who  sleeps. 

I  dreamed  a  dream  and  hold  it  true. 
In  sooth,  I  knew  thee  long  ago — 
Before  we  throbbed  with  mortal  woe, 
When  I  was  very  near  to  you. 

For  us  there  is  no  Now  nor  Then — 
I  am  for  ever  by  thy  side. 
Thou  art  of  old  my  Star,  my  Guide, 
I  choose  thee  from  the  sons  of  Men. 

I  know  how  unworthy  these  little  lines  are,  but  such 
as  you  see  them  they  are,  at  least,  firsthand.  Accept 
them,  therefore,  as  they  are  meant. — With  all 
serious  thoughts,  and  spirit-greetings,  believe  me, 
yours  always,  Elaine  Thompson. 

I  implore  you  for  the  real  truth  about  my  MS. 


[119] 


CHAPTER    X 


CHAPTER  X 

The  Hall,  Fevers  ha  m-sur- Strand, 
January  6th,  1903. 

DEAR  FRANCIS,— I  believe  that  one  or  two 
of  your  recent  letters  have  remained  un- 
answered. The  ownership  of  a  large 
landed  property  brings  with  it  cares 
which,  fortunately  for  yourself,  you  are  never  likely 
to  experience;  and  those  cares  are  more  than  usually 
pressing  just  at  the  beginning  of  the  New  Year.  Your 
letters  have,  therefore,  been  displaced  by  more  impor- 
tant matters,  and  even  now  I  can  only  deal  with  them 
in  a  very  summary  fashion. 

1.  As  regards  your  day's  hunting,  the  landlord  of 
the  "Woodhouse  Arms"  had  absolutely  no  right  to 
charge  your  horse-hire  to  my  account.  But,  knowing 
how  extremely  narrow  your  means  are,  I  have  con- 

[  123] 


THE    WOODHOUSE   CORRESPONDENCE 

Bented   to  make  the   payment,   for   tliis  occasion  onli/. 

You  will  clearly  understand  that  this  concession  is 

not  to  be  drawn  into  a  precedent.  I  cannot  leave  the 
subject  without  saying  that,  in  my  judgment,  hunt- 
ing i>  a  most  unsuitable  amusement  for  a  young  man 
in  your  pecuniary  position.  Of  course  you  will  say 
that  you  must  have  exercise;  but  you  could  find  it 
quite  sufficiently  in  some  such  inexpensive  game  as 
hock *  3 . 

~.  As  regards  the  question  of  double  surnames, 
your  last  letter  showed  a  rather  unbecoming  levity. 
I  was  not  aware,  till  you  told  me,  that  you  had  been 
christened  Woodhouse.  Had  I  known  it  at  the  time 
of  your  christening  I  should  have  protested.  There 
is  an  odious  tendency  in  the  present  day  to  create 
double  surnames  by  prefixing  a  Christian  name  to  the 
surname  prop*  r,  and  uniting  the  two  by  a  hyphen. 
Against  that  tendency  (to  my  mind  the  very  height 
of   affectation    and    vulgarity)    I    thought    it    a    duty 

to  warn  you.   when    you    signed    yourself    Francis 
Woodhoute  Murray.     The  right,  because  unassum- 

i  I'-'i  i 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

ing,  signature  in  your  case  would  be  "F.  W.  Mur- 
ray." 

But  you  had  the  questionable  taste  to  quote  my  sig- 
nature in  justification  of  your  own.     It  is  difficult  to 
believe  that  you  do  not  see  the  palpable  difference 
between  the  two  cases.     You  probably  learned  from 
your  mother  that  we  are  the  Woodhouses  of  Fever- 
sham,  and  have  been  such  for  several  centuries.    Wood- 
house,  then,  is  my  patronymic.    My  grandfather  mar- 
ried one  of  the  Wentworths  of  Yorkshire,  and  brought 
into  the  family  an  estate  in  the  West  Riding  which 
is  now  covered  with  collieries  of  considerable  value. 
The  possessor  of  that  estate  is  bound,  by  my  great- 
grandfather's will,  to  bear  the  name  of  Wentworth 
jointly  with,  and  prefixed  to,  his  patronymic ;  so  I  am 
Wentworth-Woodhouse,   and  I   quarter  the   arms   of 
Wentworth  with  my  own.     But  no  one  besides  myself 
has  the  smallest  pecuniary  interest  in  the  Wentworth 
property.     It  is  at  my    absolute    disposal,    and    my 
brothers  and  sisters  were  provided  for  out  of  the  Fever- 
sham  estate.    This  being  the  case,  there  was  no  reason 

[  125  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    OOBRESFONDENCE 

why  tli.  v  should  be  called  Wcntworth  ;  their  name  is 
Wbodhouse,  simplicitcr.  Similarly,  vour  name  ifl  Mur- 
riv,  simplicitcr;  and  for  you  to  assume  a  surname 
which  your  mother  sum  rule  red  by  her  marriage,  would 
be  not  vulgar  only,  but  absurd. 

While  I  am  on  this  subject,  I  may  remark  that  I 
hive  repeatedly  protested  against  your  Aunt  Maude's 
retention  of  her  maiden  name;  but  this  is  a  matter  be- 
tween her  and  myself. 

ii.  I  really  cannot  bring  myself  to  write  sympatheti- 
cally about  your  relations  with  Miss  Ellen  Thompson. 
It  is  a  very  common  form  of  vanity  among  young 
men  to  fancy  that  every  girl  they  meet  is  in  love  with 
them.  From  such  coxcombry  as  this  I  should  have 
hoped  that  a  nephew  of  mine  would  be  free,  but  your 
last  letter  makes  me  feel  uncertain.  If,  on  farther 
enquirv,  I  find  that  Miss  Thompson's  conduct  really 
bears  the  construction  which  you  put  upon  it,  my 
course  will  be  clear.  I  must  immediately  renounce  all 
Communication  with  her,  and  revoke  the  small  legacy 
which,  as  h<  r  godfather,  I  had  left  her.     I  must  inform 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

her  father  of  her  indiscretion,  and  I  must  withdraw 
my  countenance  and  support  from  your  Aunt  Maude, 
who  seems  to  have  fostered  this  very  undesirable  inti- 
macy.— Your  affectionate  uncle, 

Algernon  Wentworth-Woodhouse. 


[127] 


THE    WOODHOUSE   CORRESPONDENCE 


Aboukir  Mansion?.  PunaMAMTZBUBC  Grove. 

Thursday. 


My  DEAl  Algernon, — I  have  not  heard  from  you 
for  a  long  time,  but  please  do  no*  take  this  as  b  com- 
plaint. I  know  so  well  that  nervous  invalids  can 
write  but  few  letters.  But  I  also  know  that  they  like 
getting  them,  and  that  a  nice,  bright,  chatty  letter 
thoroughly  cheen  them  up.  and  >o  I  am  writing  to  you 
to  tell  you  how  we  are  getting  on.  I  can  fortunately 
give  vou  the  best  of  bulletins  about  our  soeial  progress. 
My  eldest  girl  has  not  yet  come  to  town,  as  she  is 
staying  with  friends  at  Cardiff,  but  Bhe  has  already 
had  an  invitation  to  a  winter-season  dance — a  little 
fancy-dress  hop  at  some  friends  of  the  Thompsons  at 
Balham.  And  that  brings  me  to  Ellen  T.  In  some 
ways  Bhe  i^  better  than  I  expected.    She  i^,  of  course, 

rery    moody;    and,    BS    -In-    wants    to   be    literary,    she 
would    never    allow    herself    to   be    equable,    even    had 

[  1  «8  1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

she  an}'  temptation  in  that  direction.  To  do  her 
justice,  I  don't  think  her  bad  temper  is  a  pose;  it  is 
pure  nature.  But  it's  not  the  sort  of  temper  I  mind 
— she  calls  it  sensitiveness — and  it  never  interferes 
with  my  domestic  arrangements,  or  with  anything  of 
real  importance  in  life.  She  can  always  soothe  her- 
self by  reading  her  own  poetry.  And  she  has  many 
advantages.  She  eats  very  little  and  doesn't  know 
what  she  is  eating;  she  leaves  all  the  ordering  of  the 
household  to  me,  and  as  long  as  I  talk  of  her  Strong 
Will  she  submits  to  everything  I  wish. 

Then  she  knows  a  fair  number  of  people,  to  whom 
she  has  introduced  me.  Of  course  they  are  not  quite 
the  sort  I  want,  but  one  must  begin  somewhere,  and 
her  set  is  very  interesting.  The  other  night  we  had 
a  teeny-ween}*  soiree  (only  light  refreshments,  which 
Ellen  contributed,  as  the  guests  were  her  friends), 
and  it  was  a  great  success.  We  had  a  good  many 
celebrities.  There  was  Tristram  Cripps,  the  famous 
Esoteric-Boudh-Healer,  who  cures  "by  sight."  As 
far  as  I  can  make  out,  this  means  that  he  looks  at 

[129] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

his  patients  in  ■  particular  way  (it's  a  sort  of  moral 
trick)  several  times  running;  and  I  hear  he  is  suc- 
cessful even  in  the  case  of  mortal  illness.  After  this 
comes  the  Renunciation  Phase,  in  which  the  invalids 
themselves  take  part.  I  don't  remember  all  they  are 
supposed  to  do,  but  I  know  they  have  to  say  "Nir- 
vana" to  themselves  while  they  dress  and  undress  and 
when  they  take  exercise.  We  also  had  his  friend, 
Ambrose  Rrocoli.  He  has  Italian  blood  in  him,  and  is 
an  ardent  Vegetarian.  His  dress-suit  is  made  of 
Jaeger  material,  but  otherwise  he  looks  rather  hand- 
some. Then  there  were  two  others:  Ellen's  great 
friend  Mr.  Toms,  the  poet  who  wrote  "Oh,  woodlousc, 
tell  me  something  new !" — that  sweet  little  poem  which 
had  such  a  success  a  short  while  ago;  and  Roland 
Crass,  whose  real  name  is  Mary  Jones,  the  author  of 
"The  Sin  of  Susan  Sark  and  other  Episodes."  The 
Episodes  are  decidedly  strong,  and  it  is  really  rather 
clever  of  her  to  write  them  as  she  cannot  be  more  than 
nineteen.  I  think  you  would  have  liked  our  Im- 
pressionist Painter,  Gorham-Gotts ;  he  has  such  intel- 

[  WO  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

lectual  theories.  He  believes  that  the  only  true  way 
of  looking  at  things  is  upside  down,  and  so  he  paints 
his  pictures  in  this  way,  and,  of  course,  no  one  will 
buy  them.  Ellen  says  he  is  a  Martyr  to  Truth.  He 
believes,  too,  that  all  our  complexions  are  really  lilac 
au  fonds;  but  perhaps  that  is  because  he  only  knows 
his  own  friends.  He  has  invited  me  to  tea  in  his  studio 
next  week,  and  it  will  be  most  interesting  and  artistic 
to  go.  I  wish  you  could  see  our  little  flat;  we  have 
made  it  so  quaint  with  a  few  Japanese  fans  and 
draperies.  Your  warm  rep  curtains  came  in  very 
nicely  for  my  bedroom  and  your  piece  of  linoleum 
was  just  right  for  the  pantry. 

I  must  not  close  this  letter  without  giving  you  news 
of  my  precious  Lilian.  She  is  getting  on  extremely 
well  with  your  sweet  old  aunt,  and  has  found  quite 
a  new  friend  there  in  the  resident  physician,  Dr. 
Chubb.  She  sees  a  good  deal  of  him,  and  says  his 
conversation  is  so  very  improving  that  he  is  like  an 
education  in  himself  and  she  must  make  the  most  of 
her  privileges.     Dear  Lilian  has  always  responded  to 

[131] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENT  E 
t In-  highest   influence  &     I  hope  thai    you  may  ^oon 

allow    me    to    bring    her    to    si  -     you    and    express    her 

gratitude  for  your  kindness. — Ever,  dear  Algernon, 

dlVrtionately, 

Maii.i.  (t).  Woodhoui 


I  182] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

Bute  Street,  W., 
Friday  Evening. 

Dear  Algernon, — This  is  only  a  line  to  tell  you 
that  Dr.  Chubb  has  returned  from  Africa  and  finds  a 
distinct  increase  in  my  Chronic  symptoms.  Under 
these  circumstances  you  must  be  prepared  for  any- 
thing ;  but  if  any  mortal  man  can  pull  me  through,  it 
is  Dr.  Chubb,  and  he  has  certainly  been  sent  to  me  at 
the  moment  of  my  need.  He  has  substituted  cream- 
cheese  for  muffins,  and  the  change  seems  to  be  working 
well.  I  find  your  niece  quite  a  tolerable  girl — insig- 
nificant, and  very  shy  before  Dr.  Chubb ;  but  that,  of 
course,  is  natural,  especially  as  he  never  addresses  her. 
She  is  certainly  a  relief  after  Mademoiselle,  and  has 
not  the  slightest  pretension  to  any  sort  of  illness. 
Her  voice  in  reading  aloud  and  her  French  accent  are 
both  most  disagreeable.  It  is  time  for  my  tonic,  so  I 
must  stop. — Your  affectionate  aunt, 

Louisa  Fitzwigan. 

Should  my  new  symptoms  lead  to  anything  serious, 

you  will  be  informed  of  it  by  telegram. 

[  133  ] 


CHAPTER    XI 


CHAPTER    XI 

Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea, 
January  8th,  1903. 

MY  DEAR  FRANK,— It  did  me  good  to 
see  you  the  other  day,  and  it  was  nice  of 
vou  to  come.     As  I  have  often  said,  I 
find  your  mother  again  in  you — and,  as 
you  know,  she  was  my  greatest  friend.    Life  has  neYer 
been  the  same   since  she  died.     Well,  here  are  you 
twentv-four   years    old   and    aspiring    to    a    literary 
career.     And  here  am  I,  who  held  you  in  my  arms 
when  you  were  born,  almost  an  old  woman.     Yet  I 
confess  I  feel  younger  now  than  when  I  was  your  age. 
Perhaps  that  reductio  ad  absurdum  does  not  happen 
so  much  with  men  as  it  does  with  women.     Age  is  a 
matter  of  the  heart,  and  if  you  keep  your  heart  fresh 
with  use  and  allow  it  to  haYe  light  and  air  and  the 
proper  number  of  constitutionals,  it  does  not  easily 

[  W7  ] 


THE    WOODIIOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

grow  wintry.  Men,  as  I  take  it,  get  over  their  hearts 
rather  early  in  existence,  and  so  have  nothing  to  keep 
young  with,  though,  when  they  arc  about  fifty,  they 
often  take  the  poor,  stiff,  disused  things  out  of  a 
drawer  and  urge  them  into  a  fictitious  life  again. 
Don't  be  like  that,  Frank!  Exercise  your  heart  gen- 
erously, whether  in  love  or  friendship,  and  you  will 
never  find  the  slightest  need  to  manufacture  spurious 
occupations  for  it.  However,  this  letter  is  not  an 
Essay  upon  the  Heart,  however  like  one  it  may  seem. 
Nor  is  it  an  Essay  on  Myself,  for  it  was  of  Yourself 
I  meant  to  write.  I  have  a  fatal  tendency  to  generalise 
which  makes  me  wander  off  in  by-paths. 

You  know  that  I  have  always  believed  in  your  liter- 
ary gift,  and  have  been  anxious — rather  fussily 
anxious — that  your  taste  for  the  Turf  should  not  pre- 
ponderate and  spoil  it.  I  suppose  I  may  take  all  the 
privileges  of  an  unmarried  aunt-in-the-spirit  and  tell 
you  frankly  that  I  don't  like  your  racing  novels  and 
I  think  them  rather  unworthy  of  you.  Ever  since 
you  showed  me  those  "Pleasures  of  a  Sportsman" — 

r  138 1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

those  delicious  little  pictures  of  Nature  and  Sport, 
and  of  autumn  mornings  and  evenings — so  full  of 
real  simplicity,  so  accurate,  and  yet  so  alive  and  warm 
with  imagination,  I  have  felt  that  they  represent  the 
talent  that  you  ought  to  cultivate.  If  one  only  con- 
siders happiness,  of  course  one  has  nothing  to  do  but 
cultivate  the  best  that  is  in  one.  But  to  this  you  will 
reply,  as  you  did  the  other  day,  that  you  have  your 
living  to  make  and  that  one's  best  "doesn't  pay."  It 
is  here  that  I  think  I  can  step  in  and  help  you.  My 
brother,  not  the  one  for  whom  I  keep  house,  but  the 
elder  one,  Geoffrey,  has  become  partner  in  the  firm  of 
Smudge,  Scrimgeour  &  Co.,  the  well-known  publishers. 
They  want  a  Reader  and  have  asked  him  to  find  one  for 
them.  As  he  does  me  the  honour  to  believe  in  my 
judgment  about  books,  he  consulted  me  on  the  matter, 
and  when  I  reminded  him  of  you  and  showed  him  your 
"Pleasures  of  a  Sportsman,"  he  agreed  that  you  might 
possibly  fill  the  place.  It  means  a  nice  and  certain 
little  salary — I  am  not  yet  sure  how  much.  But  I 
think  it  also  means,  if  you  go  in  for  it,  that  you  must 

[139] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

give  up  "Girls  and  Goodwood,"  and  stand  forth  un- 
imed  of  the  poetic  and  literary  gifts  that  are  in 

you. 

If  you  care  for  this  idea,  will  you  come  and  talk 
matters  over  with  me  on  Wednesday?  Don't  be  later 
than  four,  because  a  girl  whom  I  have  been  asked  to 
befriend  is  coming  to  tea.     By  the  b;.  is  by  way 

of  being  literary  ;  and  as  she  is  writing  a  novel,  she  will 
probably  have  designs  on  Geoffrey.  Whatever  hap- 
pens to  her  name  in  the  future,  I  cannot  remember  it 
now ;  but  do  >tay  on  and  meet  her.  I  have  not  felt  so 
keen  for  years  as  I  do  about  your  prospects.  Some 
people  say  that  the  surest  friendships  are  founded 
on  likeness,  some  that  they  are  founded  on  unlikeness. 
I  don't  believe  in  either  theory  much.  The  friend  who 
interests  one  most  is  the  person  who  is  what  one  might 
have  been,  or,  at  least,  what  one  wished  to  be:  and 
the  desire  of  my  life  was  always  to  be  a  man  of  letters. 
Please  try  hard  and  do  it  for  me — vicariously.  But 
here  I  am  again — giving  way  to  my  fatal  habit.— 
Yours  Martin-Tupperlv,  Barbara    Moore. 

[  1  ">  1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


Bachelors'  Club, 
January  gth. 

Dear  Miss  Moore, — It  is  awfully  kind  of  you 
to  write  as  you  do.  Of  course  I  know  you  were 
mother's  greatest  friend.  She  has  often  told  me  what 
a  comfort  you  were  all  through  my  father's  long  illness 
and  afterwards.  And  I  don't  forget  how  you  used 
to  come  down  with  her  to  Harrow,  and  what  good 
"spreads"  we  used  to  have  at  The  Creameries.  Do 
you  remember  the  strawberry  mashes,  and  salmon  cut- 
lets, and  lemonade  mixed  with  cream  ices?  One  never 
seems  to  get  that  kind  of  food  in  London.  I  have 
a  good  mind  to  ask  for  it  here,  just  for  the  sake  of 
seeing  the  waiter's  face. 

1  am  sure  I  don't  know  why  you  should  call  your- 
self an  old  woman.  One  is  old  when  one  gets  to  be 
like  poor  Uncle  Algy — always  thinking  about  one's 
health,  and  money,  and  reading  the  Economist,  and 

[Ml] 


Tin:  WOODHOUsi:  cokrkspondkxce 

taking  ■  gloomy  view  of  life.  In  th.it  way  you  are 
not  old,  and  I  trust  to  goodness  that  I  never  shall  be 
either.     But  I  think  Vm  rather  old  in  other  way-. 

Having  no  parents,  no  brothers  and   sisters,  and  no 

home  makes  one  rather  serious.  One  is  bound  to  look 
ahead  a  bit — not  like  fellows  who  have  got  parent | 
to  settle  everything  for  them. 

All  vou  tell  me  about  literature  is  awfully  interest- 
ing, as  well  as  kind.      But   what   you   say   about   my 
taste  for  the  Turf  is  a  bit  wide  of  the  mark   (if  that 
isnH  rude).     I  mean  I  really  don't  care-  a  rap  for  the 
betting  and  roguery  and  humbug  connected  with  the 
Turf;  but  I  do  love  seeing  a  good  horse,  whether  he*a 
a  racer  or  a  hunter  or  a  hack.     If  it  comes  to  that,  I 
prefer  a  good  horse  to  a  bad  one  even  in  a  hansom. 
And,  as  I  know  a  bit  about  hones  (and  nothing  much 
about    anything  else),   I   naturally   try   to  write  .about 
what   I  understand.      Nature  fits  in  naturally    (is  this 
tautology?)    with   Sport,   and   I   love   them   both,   and 

therefore  can  d  scribe  them  both.    Rut  I  should  be  all 

at  sea   in   a  love-story.     The  hero  sees   the  heroine, 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

and  falls  in  love  with  her ;  and  after  great  difficulties 
marries  her,  or  is  prevented  and  dies.  That  always 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  Love-Story,  and  I  cannot  con- 
ceive how  fellows  who  write  contrive  to  get  so  much 
variety  out  of  it. 

To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  in  hopes,  when  you 
began  mentioning  your  brother  and  the  publishers' 
firm  that  you  thought  they  would  take  one  of  my 
stories  and  bring  it  out  for  me.  That  would  have 
been  ripping ;  but  somehow  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  should 
make  much  of  a  hand  at  reading  other  people's  writ- 
ings ;  but  of  course  I  should  like  the  money  if  S.  &  S. 
thought  me  worth  it;  and  I  will  come  with  pleasure 
on  Wednesday  and  talk  it  over.  You  are  a  real  good 
friend,  and  I  am,  yours  as  usual, 

Frank. 

By  the  way,  I  had  an  awful  wigging  from  Uncle 
Algy  for  signing  "Frank."  He  said  that  nicknames 
were  vulgar.  I  took  the  tip,  and  when  I  wrote  back, 
signed  "Francis  Woodhouse  Murray"  all  in  full.    Now 

[  143J 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

he  rounds  on  mc  for  being  pompous,  and  says  he 
knows  I  mean  to  make  "Woodhouse  Murray"  into  a 
double-barrelled  surname  !  Poor  old  chap  !  I  believe 
he  means  all  right,  but  it  certainly  is  rather  difficult 
to  keep  him  sweet. 


[  144  1 


CHAPTER    XII 


CHAPTER    XII 

Bachelors'  Club, 

January   igth. 

DEAR  MISS  MOORE  —  I  called  at  your 
house  to-day,  and  was  very  sorry  to  find 
that  you  had  gone  into  the  country,  for 
I  wanted  to  see  you  rather  particularly. 
I  am  in  a  bit  of  a  difficulty,  and  I  know  no  one  so 
likely  to  be  able  to  help  me  out  of  it  as  you.  I  would 
rather  have  explained  it  viva  voce;  but  as  you  are 
away,  and  as  the  maid  did  not  know  when  you  would 
be  back  again,  I  am  obliged  to  write.  It  is  rather 
a  long  story,  but  I  hope  you  won't  be  bored. 

Of  course  you  remember  that  day  when  you  asked 
me  to  come  to  tea  with  you,  and  talk  over  the  Smudge 
&  Scrimgeour  business.  (By  the  way,  I  never  half 
thanked  you  for  your  good  offices  in  that  matter.) 

ri«] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 
Will,  you  recollect  thai  you  told  me  to  come  early, 

HIM  you  had  a  literary  girl  coining  to  tea.     I  saw 

too  in  re  rather  aatooJahed  when  ihe  and  I  ^hook  hands 
like  old  friends,  especially  as  I  know  m  f.  i  ^  ople  in 

London.  I  had  no  opportunity  to  explain  at  the 
time,  and  have  been  hoping  to  Bee  you  nee.    The 

history  of  my  knowing  the  girl — I  think  it  is  more 
discreet  in  these  matters  not  to  mention  names — is  that 
this  winter  she  i>  >haring  a  flat  with  my  aunt.  Mr>. 
i  ,  irg€  Woodhousc.  I  don't  think  you  know  my  aunt. 
I  don't  vrish  to  "crab"  her,  but  she  18  not  everybody*- 
money,  and  my  mother  couldn't  stand  her  at  any  price. 
W.  11,   she  has   come  to  London   for  the   winter,   and 

•  d  me  to  go  and  see  her.  And  there  at  tea  I  met 
the  girl  you  know  of.     My  aunt,  in  introducing  us, 

1  that  the  girl's  father  was  an  old  friend  of  the 
family,  and  that  she  ffas  Uncle  Algy'>  gobVdaagjbter. 
This   set   her  off  at  once,  and  she  declared  that  this 

[father-business  made  her  and  me  a  kind  of  cou- 
And  -he  went  on  about  L'ncle  Algy.  and  how  good  and 
kind  he  was  to  her,  and  how  he  had  helped  to  furnish 

[148] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

the  flat,  and  how  she  should  like  to  see  Feversham,  of 
which  she  had  heard  so  much,  and  a  lot  more.     Pres- 
ently she  asked  me  what  my  profession  was,  and  when 
I  said  that  I  wrote  in  a  humble  sort  of  way,  she  almost 
flung  herself  into  my  arms,  declared  there  was  nothing 
on  earth   she   cared  for  so  much  as   literature,   and 
gasped,  and  rolled  her  eyes,  and  went  on  more  like  a 
poetess  in  a  play  than  anything  in  real  life.    Thinking 
all  this  rather  odd,  I  mentioned  her  in  a  letter  to  Uncle 
Algy,  but  he  evidently  rather  "barred"  the  subject, 
and  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  had  better  keep 
away  from  my  aunt's  flat  so  long  as  the  girl  was 
there.    Little  did  I  know  what  was  in  store  for  me.    A 
few  days  after  my  visit  to  the  flat,  I  got  a  letter  in  a 
most  extraordinary  hand,  slanting  backward,  with  all 
sorts  of  tails  and  branches.     This  was  from  the  girl, 
following  up  our  acquaintance,  and  enclosing  a  poem, 
and  asking  my  opinion  on  it.     Well,  the  only  thing 
was  to  write  back  civilly,  and  say  the  best  I  could  for 
the  poem  (which  really  is  undiluted  tosh,  or  seems  so 
to  my  Philistine  taste).     That  letter,  though  I  assure 

[  149  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

you  it  was  on!//  civil  not  the  Least  bit  fond-  did  all 
the  mischief.     She  Lb  always  Bending  me  bits  of  lu-r 

prose  and   verse   to  criticise,  and   I    <jvt    volumes   from 

her  bj  everj  other  posl  telling  me  her  "lit".  -t..r\." 
sin  Bays  thai  Bhe  iraa  wretched  at  home)  thai  her 
family  misunderstood  her  (which  I  am  sure  I  don'1 
wonder  at),  that  she  "burst  the  narrow  cloister  of 
conventions  and  unit  out  into  the  large,  bare  world 
to  follow  her  -tar  win  n  Boev<  r  it  led  her.*1 

A-  far  afl  I  can  make  out.  it  led  her  to  Aunt  Maude's 

flat,  a-  the  cheapest  wav  of  living,  for  they  share  the 
rent  and  housekeeping  expenses.    Sin-  doesn't  exactly 

say  so,  but  I  fancy  that  is  what  Bhe  mean-:  and  then 

-he    goes   on    in    the    most    extraordinary    wav.    Baying 

that  her  heart  and  mine  beat  in  unison;  that  we  both 
in.  ant  to  keep  company  with  the  Immortals;  that 

lift-    in    dubs    and    flaK    though    more   'Ymancipatt  d" 

than  home  i-  "drying?  and  "blighting"  to  tin-  soul; 

and  that  true  joy  can  only  be  found  when  "tu.i  twin- 
Bpiritfl  \\and<r  hand  in  hand  through  the  Eden  of  Pure 

Art." 

|  150  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

Now,  dear  Miss  Moore,  pray  tell  me  what  on  earth 
I  am  to  do.  I  never  go  within  a  mile  of  the  flat, 
although  they  ask  me  to  tea  Incessantly.  I  answer  all 
these  rigmaroles  as  shortly  as  ever  I  can.  I  only  say 
the  barest  civilities  about  her  poems.  And  yet  she 
always  writes  back  thanking  me  effusively  for  my 
'"genius  of  sympathy,"  and  says  that  my  praise  sends 
her  to  bed  in  "a  rosy  rapture."  I  assure  you  I  live 
in  terror  of  meeting  her,  and  hardly  dare  look  out  of 
the  window  of  this  Club  for  fear  she  should  be  passing 
on  a  'bus  and  should  see  me  and  rush  in  to  ask  my 
opinion  of  a  sonnet.  You  can't  conceive  how  oddly 
she  dresses,  and,  if  she  dashed  into  the  front  hall  here 
when  the  Club  was  pretty  full,  and  attacked  me  be- 
fore the  other  fellows,  I  believe  I  should  have  a  seizure. 

Pray,  pray  counsel  me. — Your  afflicted 

Frank. 

P.S. — She  has  dedicated  one  of  her  sonnets  "To 
the  F.  of  my  Alphabet."    Do  you  think  she  means  me? 


[151] 


THE    WOODIIOUSE   CORRESPONDENCE 

Cheyne  Row, 
Saturday. 

My  dear  Frank, — I  got  your  letter  while  I  was 
itaying  witli  my  friends  at  Dalcote,  and  I  waited  for 
the  calm  of  Chelsea  and  my  own  house  before  I 
Answered  it.  I  am  really  very  sorry  for  you,  though 
not  surprised.  Ever  since  I  saw  that  astonishing 
n  -ult  of  the  times,  Miss  Elaine  Thompson,  nothing 
About  her  would  surprise  me.  Terra-cotta  jacket  and 
all,  she  is  like  some  strange,  dingy,  untidy  orchid,  and 
she  ought  to  be  kept  in  a  specimen-glass,  away  from 
the  community.  I  own  that  when  I  witnessed  the 
exotic  accolade  of  the  hand  with  which  she  greeted 
you  and  realised  that  she  already  knew  you,  I  was 
prepan  d  for  the  worst.  Her  sort  is,  I  belieye,  usually 
made  in  Germany — only  there  they  are  made  simple. 
Miss  Thompson  has  none  of  the  naivete*  of  German 
lentunent.  But  do  not,  my  dear  Frank,  I  implore 
ymi,  mistake  her  infatuation  for  a  real  grandc  passion. 
1'    -ion  is  a  rather  grand  and  rather  repellent  faculty, 

1 1  >■-'  I 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

about  the  merits  of  which  I  have  never  been  able  to 
make  up  my  mind ;  perhaps  there  is  no  need  to  do  so, 
for  this  nerveless  and  humorous  generation  seems 
inclined  to  do  without  it.  There  does  not  seem — does 
there? — any  such  enemy  to  passion  as  a  sense  of 
humour,  which  is,  I  suppose,  first  cousin  to  all  the 
critical  senses.  But  whether  or  no  one  likes  the  vic- 
tims of  passion,  it  is,  at  all  events,  a  great  quality,  and 
therefore  always  respectable — though  this  sounds  like 
something  of  a  paradox,  and  I  should  have  used  the 
word  respect-worthy.  There's  nothing,  however,  in 
the  least  worth  considering  about  poor  Miss  Thomp- 
son's sentiment,  and  I  don't  feel  that  you  owe  it  the 
chivalry  due  to  a  serious  feeling.  You  are  only  her 
All  and  her  Infinite,  by  which  she  means  Herself  in 
fancy-dress,  and  the  sooner  you  check  her,  the  better 
for  both  of  you.  I  should  get  your  Uncle  Algernon, 
who  you  say  is  her  godfather,  to  write  to  her  and 
tell  her  the  truth — that  you  do  not  return  her  admira- 
tion. I  recall  him  in  old  days  during  your  mother's 
lifetime,  and  my  recollection  of  him  makes  me  think 

[  153  1 


CHAPTER   XIII 


CHAPTER   XIII 

Aboukir  Mansions, 
February  6th,  1903. 

DEAR  FRIEND,— And  yet  it  is  as  Publisher 
and  not  as  Friend  that  I  address  you  to- 
day.     I    hear    that    you    have    become 
Reader  to   Smudge,   Scrimgeour  &   Co., 
and  I  venture  to  send  you  a  specimen  chapter  of  my 
Life-Work,    "The    Woof-Warp,"    a   Realistico-Ideal 
Novel,  in  three  volumes.     It  speaks  for  itself,  and  I 
need  add  no  comment.     I  do  not  think  that  a  real  gift 
need  fear  to  recognise  its  own  force,  or  that  it  should 
trammel  that  force  by  self-distrust.     False  modesty  is 
a  sicn  of  weakness.     It  is  this  conviction  which  now 
impels  me  to  send  you  my  MS.,  and  to  feel  that  your 
Firm  will  not  be  the  loser  by  it.     And  since  feeble 
Woman  is  not  allowed  to  speak  the  truth,  it  has  seemed 

[159] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Aboukir  Mansions, 
February  6th,  1903. 

DEAR  FRIEND,— And  yet  it  is  as  Publisher 
and  not  as  Friend  that  I  address  you  to- 
day. I  hear  that  you  have  become 
Reader  to  Smudge,  Scrimgeour  &  Co., 
and  I  venture  to  send  you  a  specimen  chapter  of  my 
Life-Work,  "The  Woof-Warp,"  a  Realistico-Ideal 
Novel,  in  three  volumes.  It  speaks  for  itself,  and  I 
need  add  no  comment.  I  do  not  think  that  a  real  gift 
need  fear  to  recognise  its  own  force,  or  that  it  should 
trammel  that  force  by  self -distrust.  False  modesty  is 
a  sign  of  weakness.  It  is  this  conviction  which  now 
impels  me  to  send  you  my  MS.,  and  to  feel  that  your 
Firm  will  not  be  the  loser  by  it.  And  since  feeble 
Woman  is  not  allowed  to  speak  the  truth,  it  has  seemed 

[159] 


THE    ITOODHOUSE   CORRESPONDENCE 

to  mc  that  I  could  speak  out  more  boldly  on  many 
essential  facts  if  I  as.sumed  the  name  of  a  man.  I 
have  therefore  called  myself  "Sintram  Shand" — a 
nom-dc- plume  that  none  I  think,  will  see  through; 
nor  is  there,  I  believe,  any  other  sign  in  the  book  by 
which  niv  Womanhood  will  be  known.  I  can  only 
congratulate  myself  on  having  such  a  Reader.  Hap- 
pier I  than  the  Brontes!  happy  indeed  to  have  no 
sojourning  in  the  Desert  of  Non-Recognition!  It 
is  to  you,  therefore,  that  I  turn,  and  in  your  arms  that 
I  lay  the  Child  of  my  thought — the  Child  for  whom 
I  have  laboured.  I  enclose  a  stamped  envelope. — 
Yours  in  all  amity,  Elaine  T. 

THE  WOOF-WARP. 

By  Sintram  Shand. 

Volume  I. 

Book   IV. — The  Aftermath. 

Chaptki    LIX. 

Modred  Borre  W*M  landing  in  his  study,  motion' 

I  160  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

and  upright,  as  his  custom  was  when  under  the  stress 
of  deep   emotion.      He   felt  a   fundamental   need   of 
relaxation,  and,  tossing  back  his  mane  of  thick  chest- 
nut hair,  as  he  always  did  when  he  was  anxious  to  shake 
off  a  subject  that  had  haunted  him,  he  sat  down  to 
his  writing-table.    With  a  sigh  of  relief  he  turned  to 
the  London  Water  Companies  Act  which  was  lying 
before  him.     It  had  long  been  the  favourite  toy  of 
his  lighter    moments — the    moments,    ever    growing 
rarer,  when  he  could  chase  from  his  mind  the  strenu- 
ous, the  omnipresent,  image  of  the  Cowper-Temple 
Clause.    A  smile  broke  out  over  his  face — like  Spring- 
time— a  smile  which    made  him    young    again,    and 
turned  him  into  the  same  man  who  had  wooed  and 
won  Vivien  Holt  ten  years  ago.    How  he  had  changed 
in  those  ten  short,  long  years !    How — but  he  must  not 
thus  allow  himself  to  fall  back  into  the  Individual: 
was  not  the  Individual  dead  in  him,  slain  in  a  hundred 
hard  battles  with  Vivien,  with  his  Ego,  with  Custom, 
with  the  World — dead  and  lost  in  the  Good  of  the 
Community?     He  turned  back  with  decision  to  the 

[161] 


THE    W00D1I0USE    CORRESPONDENCE 

London  Water  Compann ■  Act,  and  ran  his  pen  firmly 

throiiLrh  a  sentence  here  and  there:  all  miM  be  in  readi- 

i  foi  hii  interview  with  the  Prime  Minister  on  the 

rTOW.     He  would  go  up  to  town  by  the  10.15  train, 

which  got  him  to  Waterloo  at  11.550;  li«  would  take  a 
hansom  to  Downing  Street ;  this  was  a  moment  for 
which  to  sacrifice  principle  and  to  give  up  the  \\ 
minster  omnibus — that  omnibus  which  knew  his  well- 
bred  figure  so  well.  How  clearly  he  could  picture 
what  would  happen — the  familiar  room,  the  heavy, 
square  figure  of  the  Premier,  his  sarcastic  voice,  his 
rather  inanimate  face  lighting  up  at  the  sight  of 
Btfodred  and  the  Water  Companies  Act.  Oh,  how  sick 
he  was  of  it  all !  He  strode  to  the  window,  and  throw- 
ing back  his  hair,  grasped  his  coat-button,  with  that 
'ure  so  often  observable  in  idealistic  natures  bent 
upon  practical  measures.  Modred  loved  Nature,  and 
the  prospect  that  met  his  eve  was  fitted  to  soothe  and 
am  4  him.  Before  him  rolled  the  blue  ocean  of 
Surrey.  To  the  right,  the  eve  caught  the  red  roofs 
of  Witmere  village;  to  the  lift,  wai  a  clump  of  silvery 

[162  J 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

poplars  making  a  delicate  lacework  against  the  grey- 
blue  sky.  The  round  curves  of  Hind  Head  and  the 
pine-wooded  crest  of  Blackdown  dominated  the  more 
distant  landscape;  while  before  him,  on  the  lawn,  the 
gorse-warbler  sought  his  daily  worm,  and  above,  in 
the  elm,  the  wryneck  filled  the  air  with  his  short,  rasp- 
ing cry.  A  young  green  caterpillar  was  slowly  wend- 
ing his  way  along  the  Cobaea  Scandens  which  covered 
the  loggia.  He  watched  it  in  silence,  a  fine  ironical 
smile  upon  his  closed  lips.  "So  slow,  yet  aiming  so 
high,"  he  said  half  unconsciously  to  himself, — "the 
creeper  smothers  it,  like  me.  .  .  .  And  Vivien  .  .  . 
but,  ah!  it  was  not  thus  ten  years  ago."  With  a 
strong  step  he  walked  to  his  bureau,  unlocked  a 
drawer,  and  took  from  it  a  small  white  vellum  volume. 
"Ten  long,  short  years  ago,"  he  repeated  aloud.  .  .  . 
It  was  the  diary  of  the  days  of  his  courtship.  Half 
tenderly  he  fingered  the  pages,  and  then  let  himself 
read  wherever  his  eye  fell.  It  lighted  on  these 
words : — 

June  15th,  1896. — Decided  to  call  on  Miss  Vivien 

[163] 


i  in:   W00DH01  BE    (  ORRESPONDENi  1. 

1 1  it  and  bring  her  the  Bhicbooks  I  had  promised 
r  ok  the  whole  id  on  Canadian  Emigration.  Reached 
Park  Lane;  noted  thai  mj  heart  beat  more  quickly 
than  usual  on  the  doorsb  pi  but  was  not  certain  it*  this 
u\:s  from  my  heart  or  from  pure-  intellectual  excite- 
ment. Found  Mi-  Holt  at  her  table,  writing  out  her 
scheme  Tor  the  Inebriate  Ladies1  Laundry.  Talked  to 
ber  on  the  Inebriate  Question  (about  which  I  know 
much)  for  an  hour.  Absorbing  but  imprudent  >ub- 
ject,  \W  grew  more  intimate,  and  ended  with  Co- 
operation and  Socialism,  Vivien  looking  almost  beauti- 
ful in  her  black  satin,  frith  the  single  diamond  star 
at  her  throat  She  spoke  nobly  of  the  unequal 
distribution  of  wealth.  Felt  much  less  uncertain  <>i* 
my*  If.    1$  this  r     ion! 

Jul//  Iff.— Prostrate  in  soul  and  body  after 
exhausting  week  of  wrestling  with  myself  about  the 
Income  Tax.  What  i-  the  right  attitude  towards  it  r 
Alas!  I  no  longer  know.  Doubt  blurs  my  vision,  the 
old  foundations  have  crumbled,  and  the  certainty  of 
\     it } i  h.^  fled.     Resolved  to  find  intellectual  calm  in 

I  164  I 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

Vivien's  presence.  It  is  wonderful  how  reposeful  it  is 
to  talk  about  oneself.  And  no  one  but  a  woman  will 
listen.  It  is  her  supreme  Charm.  I  am  beginning  to 
understand  Love.  Debated  within  myself  as  to  the 
hour  at  which  I  am  at  my  best.  Decided  on  a  quarter 
to  three. 

July  9.nd. — Have  resolved  on  marriage — may  I 
not  rather  call  it  Co-operative  Union? — with  Vivien. 
She  is  made  for  me — noble  woman  that  she  is.  She  is 
giving  up  all  the  pleasures  of  her  existence,  even  her 
Inebriate  Ladies'  Laundry,  for  my  sake,  and  we  are 
going  to  live  a  life  of  hard  work  together  in  Park 
Lane. 

Modred  put  the  book  down  with  an  air  of  indefinable 
sadness.  Where  were  they  now,  those  golden  days, 
when  he  and  she  had  common  topics  of  conversation? 
Half  unconsciously  he  put  up  his  hand  and  caught 
at  a  wasp  which  was  buzzing  above  his  head ;  then, 
shaking  back  his  hair,  he  let  his  hand  fall  again.  His 
eye  caught  the  row  of  pamphlets  upon  the  Game  Laws 

[165] 


THE    vVOODHO!  3E    I  ORRESPONDENCE 
on  the  ihelf  oppotitc  him — the  I 

•  ml:*  (1.      Could  DOt  en  rv    man   in 

enter  hie  protest  Against  them?    T:  uld 

prcserrc  irasps ;  but   was  not  I'vi-n  the  iparin| 
m  in  some  sort  ■  irorki  of  hia  Ed 

■  wasp Hut  here  the  door  d  ilowly, 

\  rien  languidly  came  in.     Her  dot! 
moved    She  was  dressed  in  black  chiffon,  with  touches 
of  ft  How  here  and  there,  and  the  i  iharp 

in  her  little  feather  toque.    Thi  i  about  Vh 

tbat  inexplicable  air  of  J  which  b        ich  • 

tent  charm  for  every  one  who  encountera  it.  even 
for  tht  3  dist  Ae  Ik-  looked  at  her,  Modred 
d  that  it  really  bad  been  tins  irhich  bad  fir>t 
attr  u  I  d  him  to  her,  though  he  bad  call*  d  it  by  other 
names,  The  old  ipeO  returned  and  held  him  an 
••p  ."  be  began— but  ihe  broke  in  at  "I 

am   going  Up   to   town   bv    Wv  ■"  A       H- 

looked  long  at  1..  r.     "You  are  ah  by 

."   !  ,     |  .   in  a  low  voice  from  which  all 

d  bad  disappeared    Ml  musl  go  to  Woollai 

[166  J 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

Sale,"  was  all  her  answer,  and  she  made  again  for  the 
door.  "Dear,"  he  said,  "to-morrow  I  am  to  see  the 
Premier.  I  sorely  need  strengthening.  Could  you 
not  stay  with  me?  I  think  perhaps  that  if  you  played 
me  the  Fire  Music  from  'The  Valkyrie'  I  could  get  the 
Cowper-Temple  Clause  out  of  my  head.  At  present 
it  never  leaves  me,  night  or  day."  "I  am  very  sorry, 
but  I  must  go  to  Woolland's  Sale,"  she  reiterated,  in 
her  even,  metallic  tones;  "I  shall  come  back  by  the 
5.45."  The  door  creaked  slowly,  and  she  rustled  away 
from  him. 

.  .  .  For  a  moment  he  sat  as  one  stunned.  Then, 
half  mechanically,  he  took  down  his  hat  from  the 
chamois-horn  above  his  head,  put  his  John  Stuart  Mill 
in  his  pocket,  and  left  the  house.  Like  a  man  in  a 
dream,  he  crossed  the  dusty  road  to  the  red-brick 
villa  opposite ;  like  a  man  in  a  dream,  he  rang  the 
door-bell.  The  parlour-maid  answered  it.  "Is 
Miss  Alice  at  home?"  he  asked.  "Miss  Alice 
is  in  the  summer-arbour    a-readin'    of    Ibsen,"    the 

[167] 


mi;    WOODHOUSE   CORRESPONDENCE 

\.tnt  goardedDj  rejoined.  Modred's  heart  beat 
bo  loud  that  he  could  hear  it.  Blessed  servant  to  be 
so  easily  duped  by  him  and  to  think  it  was  Mi-  Alice 
he  needed!  lie  thought  she  must  perceive  the  tremble 
in   his  voice  as  he  added  mIj,   "And   Friiulein 

9  Karmacher,  is  she  with  Mi>s  Alice?"  "If  it's  the 
I  -  [UAH  gOYl  rn  M  you  mean,  she's  in  the  arbour  too," 
was  the  reply.    .    .    . 

Still  like  one  in  a  dream,  Modred  passed  through 
the  garden-door  to  the  Path  which  led  to  the  Arbour. 
It  was  almost  Noon. 


I  168  | 


CHAPTER   XIV 


CHAPTER   XIV 

Bute  Street,  W., 
February  8th. 

DEAR  UNCLE  ALGERNON,— I  have 
never  written  to  you  before,  but  I  have 
often  talked  of  you.  Mamma  has  always 
taught  us  that  you  are  the  guardian 
angel  of  our  family.  You  know  that  guardian  angels 
have  wings,  and  the  reason  which  now  emboldens  me 
to  write  is  that  I  want  you  to  take  us  under  them. 
Us  means  George  and  me — and  George  is  Dr.  Chubb, 
your  aunt's  resident  physician,  to  whom  I  have  to-day 
become  engaged.  We  love  each  other  passionately, 
and  nothing  will  ever  alter  our  resolution  to  marry. 
My  mother  will,  I  know,  be  delighted;  I  think  our 
union  has  for  the  last  fortnight  been  the  wish  of  her 
heart.  But  your  Aunt  Louisa  will  not  see  things  in 
this  light  at  all.  The  fact  is  that  she  will  probably 
be  very  angry  with  us  and  we  dare  not  ourselves  tell 
her  the  news.     But,  knowing  your  fatherly  kindness, 

[171] 


THE    WOODIIOl/SK    CORRESPONDENCE 

I  turn  to  you  in  our  Deed.     You  arc  the  one  person 
for  whose-  opinion    Lady   Louisa  ha>  any  respect,  and 
I  think  I  mav  lay  that  your  influence  over  her  is  un- 
bounded   If  you  told  her  thai  we  irere  engaged  and 
that  you  countenanced  the  arrangement,  I  believe  thai 
■he  mighi  be  ioftened     The  truth  ii  thai  she  is  in 
love  with  George  herself  and  has  done  her  beat  to 
separate  us.     But  we  are  made  for  one  another,  and  if 
you  saw  dj  together  I  know  you  would  agree     Like 
all  great  men — and  the  world  will  -till  ring  With  the 
name  of  Chubb — George  is  mercurial  and  has  gloomy 
fits;  I,  on  the  contrary,  am  very  bright   (George  calls 
me  "Sonsy"  and  "his  Sunbeam")  ;  I  am  quite  pr.-pan  d 
to  flood  his  life  with  sunshine  and  to  be  very  economi- 
cal too.     Of  course,  lately,  his  main  income  has  been 
derived  from  Lady  Louisa,  who  has  given  him  a  large 
salary;  but  he  has  saved  enough  to  buy  a  practice, 
and  I  could  do  with  very  little,  and  even  make  his 
clothes.     Nothing  would  matter  as  long  as  we  had  one 
big  room  for  his  patients1  waiting-room,  and  I'm  rare 
vou    uill   agree  with  me   that    LoVf   is   tlic  only   thing 

M72  1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

that  is  at  all  really  important.  The  worst  of  it  is  that 
Lady  Louisa  still  owes  him  his  quarter's  salary,  and 
we  are  afraid  that  if  she  is  agitated  by  our  engage- 
ment she  will  not  give  it  him.  Please,  please,  dear 
Uncle  Algernon,  act  the  good  fairy,  as  }tou  must  often 
have  done  before,  and  break  the  news  to  her  and  put 
her  into  a  good  temper  again.  I  wonder  if  you  know 
that  one  of  the  best  ways  of  doing  so  is  to  tell  her 
she  seems  very  frail  and  to  make  her  talk  about  her 
symptoms.  She  especially  loves  being  told  that  she 
looks  faint.  But  no  doubt  }tou  know  this  already. 
Do  please,  we  implore  you,  manage  this  tiny  little  job 
for  us,  and  George  and  I  will  bless  you  for  ever.  He 
wishes  me  to  say  that  he  already  feels  quite  like  your 
nephew  and  may  he  send  you  his  love?  Could  you 
write  to  Lad}T  L.  as  soon  as  possible,  as  George  and 
I  feel  very  overstrained  by  the  situation? — With  a 

fond  embrace,  your  loving  niece, 

Lilian  Woodhouse. 

George  belongs  to  the  Rutlandshire  Chubbs,  not  to 

the  Chubbs  of  Wolverhampton,  ivho  are  no  relations. 

[178] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    I  ORRESPONDENCE 


The   Hall.   Feversham-scr-Stra- 

j,  1003. 

Dbai  Lilian, — I  have  received  by  bo-daj*i  1    mid 
•    poor  fetter  of  yesterday9!   date     Von  justly 

n!,H  r\.    th.it  you  have  never  before  written  to  me,  and 

I  most  frank  thai  I  hope  you  will  never  again 

1  me  a  letter  bo  deficient  in  good  lense  Bud  ijood 

ling.     As  the  head  of  your  family,  and  fog, 

in  some  sort,  responsible  for  you.  I  fed  hound  to 
before  you,  in  the  clearest   possible  light,  the  culpa- 
bility of  your  present  conduct. 

You    entered     Lady     Louisa's    house     on   the     sole 

ngtb    of    mji    r«  commendation.      Of   coutm  ,    I    do 

not  forget  that  you  an   Lady  Lou  -niece:  but 

vou  know  very  well  that  the  renounced  all  common 

tion   with   your   father   aft.  r   hi-   marriage    (of   which 

ihe  bigfaly  dbsapproTed),  and  would  m  four 

ther.    As  to  yourself,  I  doubt  if  ib 

vour  existence  until  I  mentioned  your  name     \our 

I  174  I 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

father's  habitual  improvidence  and  premature  death 
left  you,  with  your  mother  and  sisters,  in  a  state  of 
genteel  destitution ;  and  I,  yielding,  perhaps  weakly, 
to  your  mother's  passionate  appeals  for  help,  recom- 
mended you  as  Companion  to  my  aunt.  I  knew,  of 
course,  that  you  had  no  accomplishments  which  would 
command  a  salary,  but  I  thought  there  might  be  ways 
in  which  a  well-disposed  girl,  even  though  completely 
uneducated,  could  make  herself  useful  to  an  aged  lady 
in  delicate  health.  My  aunt  adopted  my  suggestion — 
not,  I  must  admit,  without  reluctance — and  consented 
to  receive  you  on  the  footing,  as  I  understand, — for 
there  is  no  good  in  mincing  these  matters, — of  an 
unpaid  Upper  Servant.  This  arrangement  at  least 
provided  you  with  a  refined  home  and  congenial  occu- 
pation; and  you  are  now  mad  enough  and  ungrateful 
enough  to  talk  of  deserting  my  aunt,  at  her  advanced 
age  and  with  her  increasing  infirmities,  and  that  in 
circumstances  essentially  discreditable  to  yourself  and 
all  concerned. 

As  a  man  of  honour,  I  must  communicate  your 

[175] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

intention!  to  my  aunt,  and  then  leave  the  matter  in 
her  band*. 

It  is,  I  fear,  only  in  a  sense  that  I  can  sign  myself 

your  affectionate  unc-lr, 

Algernon  Wentworth-Woodhouse. 


f  i~r,  i 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


The  Hall,  Feversham-sur-Strand, 
February  gth,  1903. 

My  dear  Aunt, — There  are  those  who,  when  they 
are  compelled  to  announce  unpleasant  news,  attempt, 
as  they  say,  to  "break"  it.  This  I  have  always  re- 
garded as  a  form  of  moral  cowardice,  and  I  therefore 
inform  you,  without  further  circumlocution,  that  my 
niece,  whom  you  so  obligingly  took  as  your  Com- 
panion, has  formed  a  clandestine  engagement  with 
your  resident  doctor.  She  actually  had  the  effrontery 
to  make  me  privy  to  her  misdeeds — with  what  result 
you  can  imagine.  I  rejoice  in  the  reflection  that  your 
well-known  strength  of  character  will  enable,  you  to 
deal  with  this  domestic  treachery  as  it  deserves. — 
Affectionately  3'ours, 

Algernon  Wentworth-Woodhouse. 

P.S. — I  write  in  haste,  as  I  am  just  leaving  for 
London. 

[177] 


CHAPTER  XV 


CHAPTER  XV 

ioo  Portland  Place,  W., 
February  loth,  1903. 

DEAR  MISS  THOMPSON,— As  an  old 
friend  of  your  father's  and  as  one  of 
your  sponsors,  I  could  have  wished  to 
address  you  by  your  Christian  name.  But 
I  fear  that  the  substance  of  my  letter  must  be  such  as 
would  make  an  affectionate  or  familiar  commencement 
wholly  inappropriate.  At  the  same  time,  I  feel  that 
the  relations  previously  subsisting  between  us  not  only 
authorise,  but  compel,  me  to  express  myself  in  lan- 
guage of  unwonted  plainness. 

It  has  lately  come  to  my  knowledge  that  my  sister- 
in-law,  Mrs.  George  Woodhouse,  has  had  the  extreme 
unwisdom  (I  might  use  a  stronger  phrase,  but  I  for- 
bear) to  make  you  acquainted  with  my  nephew, 
Francis  Murray.     There    is    much    in    the  youth's 

[181] 


THE    vVOODHOUSE   CORRESPONDENCE 

character  and  conduct  which  has  long  caused  me 
tmeasiness,  and  not   seldom  di  ire;  but  up  till 

now  I  have  never  detected  him  in  positive  deviation 

from  truth. 

Tins  circumstance  leads  me  to  fear  thai  there  may 

be  more  than  boyish  coxcombry  in  hi>  clear  and  reit- 
erated statement  that  you  pursue  him  with  unwelcome 
attentions,  and  apparently  have  in  view  nothing  less 
preposterous  than  an  engagement.  In  order  that  I 
might  satisfy  myself  as  to  the  precise  amount  of  cul- 
pability attaching  to  your  conduct,  I  told  my  nephew 
that  I  wished  to  see  the  letters  which  he  had  received 
from  vou.  A  more  natural  or  more  legitimate  desire 
could  not  be  conceived  :  but  my  nephew  refuA  d  to  >cnd 
them.  He  justifies  his  refusal  on  the  ground  of  what 
he  absurdly  calls  "chivalry,"  but  what  I  should  rather 
characterise  as  vanity  and  self-will.  An  affectation  of 
superior  knowledge  of  the  world  may  often  be  detected 
in  the  young. 

Failing  the  production  of  the  incriminating  docu- 
ments, you  will  see  that  I  am  con-trained  to  believe 

I  18*] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

the  worst.  In  the  absence  of  proof  to  the  contrary, 
I  must  believe  that  you  have  inveigled  an  extremely 
foolish  youth,  by  many  years  your  junior,  and  have 
tried  to  entrap  him  into  an  offer  of  marriage. 

If  I  am  right  in  this  deplorable  surmise,  it  is  obvious 
that  all  appeals  to  good  feeling,  delicacy,  gratitude, 
and  the  like,  would  be  thrown  away.  It  may  better 
suit  my  purpose  if  I  tell  you  quite  explicitly  the 
position  of  affairs.  My  nephew  is  a  youth  against 
whose  moral  character  indeed  I  can  make  no  positive 
allegation,  but  who  has  certainly  never  shown  any 
signs  of  high  principle  or  delicate  feeling.  His  means 
are  so  small  that  he  may,  without  serious  exaggeration, 
be  described  as  penniless.  He  has  (in  my  judgment) 
no  intellectual  gifts.  He  is  conceited,  idle,  and  extrav- 
agant. Having  no  prospects  at  the  Bar,  I  believe 
that  he  has  just  now  some  temporary  occupation  in 
a  house  of  business.  Whether,  under  these  circum- 
stances, he  would  be  an  eligible  partner  for  life  is  a 
question  on  which  I  pronounce  no  opinion.  I  should 
recommend   you   to    consult    your   parents.      I   have 

[183] 


THE    wool)  [OUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

heard  that  they   spoilt   you   a   good  deal;  but   there 
must,  I  conceive,  be  limits  to  even  their  forbearance. 

One  word  remains  to  be  said.  You  may  perhaps 
imagine  that  my  nephew  has  what  are  vulgarly  called 
"expectations"  from  me.  Pray  disabuse  your  mind 
of  this  delusion.  What  my  testamentary  dispositions 
may  be  is  a  matter  in  which  I  do  not  court  publicity. 
But  you  may  rest  assured  that  my  nephew's  refusal 
to  disclose  the  documents  which  I  demanded  will  have 
effectually  disposed  of  any  schemes  for  his  advance- 
ment which  I  may,  or  may  not,  have  entertained. — 
Faithfully  yours, 

Algernon  Wentworth-Woodhouse. 


r  is*  i 


THE   WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


Aboukir  Mansions,  West  Kensington, 

February  nth. 

My  dear  Friend, — (for  you  will,  I  know,  allow  me 
to  call  you  by  this  sacred  name), — I  have  many  things 
to  thank  you  for,  but  most  of  all  do  I  bless  you  for 
your  letter.     Believe  me,  I  can  appreciate  the  effort 
it   must  have  cost  you  to  write  it — the  victory  of 
friendship,  the  sacrifice  of  your  own  wishes,  that  it 
means.     I  treasure  its  nobility,  its  frankness,  its  aus- 
terity even.    Had  every  word  of  it  been  true,  I  should 
but  have  bowed  my  head — young  head  though  it  be 
— in  reverent   gratitude.     But,  dearest  and  best  of 
friends,  you    are    mistaken — generously    but    utterly 
mistaken.     I  have  liked  your  nephew  as  a  younger,  a 
much  younger  brother,  but  I  have  never  dreamed  of 
any  warmer  feeling  for  him.     My  heart  has  never 
bounded  at  his  approach,  or  my  pulse  beat  the  quick- 
lier  for  him  by  one  throb.     He  is  not  old  enough 
to  interest  me.    He  has  had  no  experience,  no  mellow- 

[185] 


THE    WnoDIlorsE    CORRESPONDENCE 

ing  itorm-ehoweri  to  ripen  the  grapes  of  his  spirit. 
His  character  pieaenti  no  contrasts — nothing  to  lav 
hold  of  a  keen  advancing  intellect  Rich  as  I  cannot 
help  knowing  I  possess.  "Youth's  not  life's  crown, 
tho'  youth  i>  Wi  11,"  as  I  once  said  in  my  little  poem, 
uYouth  and  Heart"  (which  will  appear  with  my  other 
"V.  rsiclea  of  a  Lonely  Soul"). 

And  yet,  and  yet,  I  know  what  Passion  is.  I  make 
no  denial  that  the  June  of  my  Life  has  come  to  me, 
even  unto  ine  also.  I  love,  and  I  love  deeply,  and  I 
dart  hope  I  am  at  least  something  to  him  whom  I  have 
chosen.  Shall  I  descrihe  him  to  you,  and  can  you 
gueaa  who  he  may  be?  He  is  not  young;  he  is  not 
really  old)  though  winter  has  laid  a  dignifying  finger 
upon  him.  Wisdom  is  his,  and  Truth,  and  a  Mind 
whose  largeness  never  relapses  into  laxity.  lie  has 
something  better  than  good  looks,  he  has  a  presence. 
II.  [i  rich,  but  he  lives  as  one  that  is  poor ;  he  has 
dwelling-places  large  enough  to  hold  the  throngs  of 
fashion,  but  he  dares  to  live  in  solitude.  lie  is  weak 
and  ill,  and  he  has  no  woman  to  tend  him.     And  yet 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

there  is  one  Woman    whose    life    he    has    completed; 

whose  intellectual  strength  depends  upon  him ;  who  is 

the  better  and  the  nobler  for  his  existence;  one  who 

would  fain  hold  him  by  the  hand  and  smooth  his  pillow 

and  talk  to  him  of  all  things  in  heaven  and  on  earth. 

She  is  young,  but  she  will  give  him  her  youth ;  she 

is  gifted,  but  she  will  give  him  her  mind ;  she  is  not 

what  men  call  beautiful,  but  the  meaning  of  her  face 

is  his — and  she  asks  no  reward  but  to  serve  him,  and 

him  only,  until  the  Twilight. 

I  will  say  no  more,  but  it  may  be  that  you  can 

guess,  too,  who  she  is. — Your  godchild, 

Elaine. 

May  I  add  this  little  song  which  came  to  me  last 
night?    It  is  very  quiet : — 

He  dwells  amidst  untrodden  ways, 

Near  Wisdom's  treasure-trove: 
A  King,  who  findeth  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love. 

I  took  my  heart  inside  my  hand — 

I  laid  it  at  his  feet ; 
My  King  came  down  in  Robe  and  Crown — 

The  rest  was  passing  sweet. 

[  187  ]  E- T- 


CHAPTER    XVI 


A 


CHAPTER   XVI 

Telegrams 

To  Woodhouse,   ioo  Portland  Place,  W. 
RRIVE  Portland  Place  this  afternoon  with 
husband    for    kind    advice.       Married: 
Registrar:     to-day.     All  perfection. — 
Lilian. 


To  Woodhouse,   ioo  Portland  Place,  W. 
Coming  two  to-day  to  consult  you ;  urgent  business. 
Will      explain      personally.        Billion      apologies. — 
Maude. 

[Sent  12.10  p.m.] 
To  Woodhouse,   ioo  Portland  Place,  W. 

Come  Bute  Street  five  to-day.    Discuss  disagreeable 

affair.    Instant  measures  necessary.    Solitude  ensured. 

Girl  sent  for  day  to  Clapham.    Shock  affects  health. — 

Fitzwigax. 

[191] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CX)RltESPONDENCE 

[Sent    12  45   p  m.] 
To  Woodhouse,   ioo  Portland  Place,  \V. 

Mysterious  disappearance  of  Dr.  Chubb  when  sum- 

moned  by  me.     Cardiac  Spasm.     Worst  suspicions. 
What   course  advisable? — Fitzwigan. 

To  Lilian  Chubb,  c/o  Lady  Louisa  Fitzwigan, 

Bute   Street.  W. 

Your  conduct  incredible  folly,  and  proposed  visit 
gross  impertinence.     Not  at  home. — Woodhouse. 

To  Mrs.  G.  Woodhouse,  Aboukir  Mansions,  W. 

On  no  account  come  to-day.  Closely  occupied. — 
Algernon. 

To  Fitzwigan,  Bute  Street,  W. 

Impossible  come  to  you,  but  could  see  you  here. 
Absconding  couple  threaten  to  force  entry. — Wood- 
house. 

To  Murray.  Bachelors'  Club.  W. 

Come  here  at  once.  Might  be  useful.  Disagreeable 
business. — Woodhouse. 

[19t] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


Cheyne  Row. 
Tuesday  Evening. 

Dear  Frank, — For  goodness  sake,  write  at  once 
to  tell  me  what  happened  at  Portland  Place  to-day 
after  my  departure  and  your  arrival.  I  longed  that 
my  eyes  might  telegraph  to  you  what  had  been  going 
on,  but  your  uncle  was  so  firm  in  bowing  me  out  that 
I  had  no  choice  but  to  leave.  My  dear  Frank,  the 
whole  affair  was  awful !  Another  such  experience 
would,  I  believe,  paralyse  me,  and  I  feel  that  I  must 
lose  no  time  in  describing  it  to  you,  though  probably 
you  have  by  now  had  many  versions  of  what  occurred. 

And,  first,  you  must  know  what  took  me  to  your 
uncle's  house.  After  your  visit  to  me  yesterday,  I 
found  a  good  deal  to  think  over.  Knowing  that  you 
have  a  little  income  of  your  own,  it  has  always  been 
a  matter  of  surprise  to  me  that  money-making  seemed 
of  such  importance  to  you,  who  are  the  least  mercenary 
of  men ;  and  when  you  revealed  to  me  that  you  have 

[193] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

1).  .n  .substantially  helping  old  Mrs.  Stone  for  the 
last  three  jean,  my  blood  boiled.  She  is  no  more 
than  your  third  cousin,  and  not  only  is  she  a  genera- 
tion Dearer  to  your  uncle,  hut  a  great  part  of  their 
childhood  was,  I  know,  spent  together,  so  that  he  has 
all  the  added  tie*  of  his  oldest  associations  to  hind  him 
to  her.  Yet  it  would  seem  that  he  has  never  given  her 
I  farthing.  At  midnight,  when  all  one's  boldest  plans 
are  conceived,  and  the  impossible  becomes  more  pos- 
sible than  it  really  is,  I  resolved  to  go  to  Mr.  Wood- 
house,  tell  him  the  truth,  and  make  him  take  this  bur- 
den from  your  shoulders.  Though  a  little  less 
-anguine  this  morning,  I  did  not  allow  myself  to 
waver,  and  in  order  to  make  sure  of  finding  him  in 
and  alone  (I  remembered  that  he  always  lunched  at 
home  and  rested  afterwards),  I  got  to  Portland  Place 
a  little  past  two.  I  felt  rather  surprised  when  the 
-  rvant  told  me  that  he  was  out — that  he  had  received 
levera]  telegrams  about  luncheon-time,  seemed  very 
much  disturbed,  and  had  gone  to  the  telegraph  office 
to   answer   them   himself.      The  butler   had   evidently 

[19*] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

had  a  bad  time  and  was  relieved  to  have  a  confidante, 
but  looked  scared  when  I  said  that  I  would  wait  till 
Mr.  Woodhouse  returned.  I  had  not  been  five  minutes 
in  the  drawing-room  when  the  door  burst  open,  and 
that  very  objectionable  lady,  Mrs.  George  Wood- 
house,  burst  in.  The  poor  creature  always  would  have 
taken  a  double-first  for  bad  breeding,  and  under 
emotion  she  is,  of  course,  bound  to  distinguish  her- 
self. She  seemed  profoundly  agitated  and  hardly 
waited  to  see  who  I  was  before  she  told  me  why  she 
was  in  such  a  state.  Her  daughter  Lilian,  Lady 
Louisa's  companion,  had  become  secretly  engaged,  she 
said,  to  the  resident  physician,  Dr.  Chubb.  What  on 
earth  should  she,  the  unhappy  mother,  do,  and  how 
should  she  break  it  to  Algernon  ?  She  had  telegraphed 
to  him  that  she  was  coming.  Her  manner  was  the 
drollest  mixture  of  panic  and  triumph ;  but  she  had 
hardly  begun  to  tell  me  about  Dr.  Chubb's  income 
and  prospects,  when  the  door  again  opened  impetu- 
ously, and  there  entered  a  rather  elegant,  second-rate 
young  woman  and  a  very  inelegant,  second-rate  young 

[195] 


THE   WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

man — Lilian  and  Dr.  Chubb.  They  lost  no  time  in 
informing  their  mamma  that  they  had  just  been  mar- 
ried  before  the  Registrar,  and  had  resolved  to  implore 
Mr.  \Yoodhouse\s  protection  against  his  aunt.  I  must 
say  that  I  never  saw  anybody  more  miserable  than 
Mrs.  Woodhouse.  Like  all  the  feeble  and  foolish,  *}u 
began  to  scold.  "You  have  ruined  your  chances 
altogether,"  she  said,  in  her  loud,  shrill  tones :  "you 
know  what  an  unmitigated  skinflint  your  uncle  is." 
"I  do  know  that  he  is  the  most  disagreeable  old  gen- 
tleman in  the  world,"  Lilian  replied,  in  just  the  same 
voice  as  her  mother's — "You  have  always  impressed 
upon  me  that  there  wasn't  a  soul  that  could  love  him ; 
and  Lady  Louisa  says  that  she  positively  detests  him, 
and  that  he  pretends  to  be  delicate  so  that  he  may  have 

more  leisure   for  selfishness ;  but  all   the   same w 

At  this  moment  I  heard  the  faintest  footfall  outside ; 
then  the  door,  which  Lilian  and  Dr.  Chubb  had  left 
open,  creaked  slowly,  and — oh,  heavens  ! — Mr.  Wood- 
house  was  in  our  midst.  7  sa:c  at  onee  that  he  had 
heard    the   -whole   conversation.      My   dear   Frank,   I 

rioG  i 


THE  WOODHOUSE  CORRESPONDENCE 

never  beheld  anything  more  awful  than  his  face.  It 
was  absolutely  livid,  his  lips  were  blue,  and  he  had 
the  cruelty  to  stand  still  for  several  seconds,  saying 
nothing  and  looking  everything.  It  was  clear  that 
he  was  not  even  aware  of  my  presence.  He  was  just 
opening  his  lips,  and  I  own  that  I  was  turning  cold 
with  terror,  when  a  violent  ring  at  the  front  door  bell 
distracted  his  attention :  there  was  a  panting  and 
rustling  on  the  staircase,  and  before  you  could  say 
Jack  Robinson,  old  Lady  Louisa — Lady  Louisa,  who, 
as  }-ou  know,  has  not  walked  for  fifteen  years — lit- 
erally ran  into  the  room.  No  italics  are  sufficient 
for  the  situation,  and  even  Mr.  Woodhouse  was  petri- 
fied. She  was  breathless  with  exertion  and  anger,  and 
seemed  to  be  endowed  with  superhuman  strength.  The 
sight  of  Lilian  and  Dr.  Chubb  finished  her,  or,  to  be 
more  accurate,  set  her  off ;  but  as  her  first  words  rang 
through  the  room,  your  uncle  unfortunately  became 
conscious  of  my  presence.  I  really  don't  quite  know 
what  happened;  I  only  remember  that  I  stuttered 
forth  some  attempt  at  an  explanation  and  found  my- 

[197] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

self,  I  shall  oever  know  how,  being  l>owcd  inexorably 
downstairs  by  Mr.  Woodhouse.    This  is  why  yon  saw 

him  opening  Ihe  door  for  me  as  you  came  in,  and  you 
will  now  understand  my  scared  appearance  and 
flustered  exit.    Of  course,  it  was  impossible  for  you 

and  me  to  do  more  than  greet  each  other  at  such  a 
junctures  but  I  longed  to  give  you  ■  word  of  warning 
before  you  entered  thai  den  of  egoists — and  also  to 
entreat  you  for  an  account  of  what  came  next.  The 
thought  of  "Aunt  Louisa"  really  occupies  me  most. 
How  will  she  ever  get  on  to  her  sofa  again?  And  I 
confess  that  your  uncle's  cold  fishy  eye  follows  mc 
wherever  I  look.  Well,  as  usual,  I  have  done  nothing 
for  you  and  have  put  my  foot  into  it.  Whatever  "it* 
may  mean,  my  foot  seems  always  to  be  there:  but 
though  that  fact  is  inconvenient,  I  confess  it  provides 
me  with  a  good  deal  of  drama  and  adds  a  Bpicy  flavour 
to  life. 

And  if  one  tires  of  being  a  dramatist  and  want-  to 
turn  moralist,  what  a  sheaf  of  axioms  might  be  gleaned 

from  to-day's  show  of  egoists!    "Quelque  decouverte 

[198] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

qu'on  ait  faite  dans  le  pays  de  l'egoi'sme,  il  y  reste 
encore  bien  des  terres  inconnues."  Is  not  that  maxim 
of  La  Rochefoucauld's  (and  I've  only  changed  it  by 
substituting  egoisme  for  amour-propre)  a  charming 
summary  of  this  morning's  impressions?  Do  write 
without  delay  to  your  affectionate  friend, 

Barbara  Moore. 

I  gather,  from  what  happened,  that  none  of  your 
uncle's  answering  telegrams  could  have  reached  their 
destinations  in  time,  as  they  must  surely  have  been 
preventive?  Lilian  let  out  that  she  and  Dr.  Chubb 
had  telegraphed  that  they  were  coming  to  Portland 
Place,  and  as  "Aunt  Louisa"  held  a  pink  paper  in  her 
upraised  hand,  I  suppose  she  had  opened  Mr.  Wood- 
house's  reply.  If  you  can,  satisfy  my  curiosity  on 
these  points. 


[1991 


CHAPTER  XVII 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Bachelors'  Club, 
Wednesday. 

DEAR  MISS  MOORE,— Yes,  indeed !  there's 
a  heap  to  tell  you.  If  only  I  could  work 
it  into  a  book,  my  fortune  would  be  made. 
But  I  must  begin  at  the  beginning. 
You  know  I  went  down  to  Feversham  just  before 
Christmas,  in  order  to  talk  over  my  affairs  with  Uncle 
A.  He  was  not  exactly  what  you  would  call  gushing, 
but  he  behaved  very  decently  to  me,  and  gave  me  a 
day's  hunting.  I  fancied,  somehow,  that  he  was 
rather  more  inclined  to  thaw  than  I  had  ever  known 
him  before,  and  that  he  was  beginning,  in  his  queer 
way,  to  take  some  interest  in  my  career.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  this,  I  couldn't  have  hardened  my  heart  to 
write  and  tell  him  about  E.  T.  and  her  goings-on, 

[203] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

«s  \iiii  n  commended  me  to  do.  Howev<  r,  I  did  it,  and 
sol  the  mosf  frightful  answer  from  him,  demanding, 
among  other  things,  to  see  her  letters,  in  order  that 
he  might  teO  her  father,  and  cut  her  oat  of  hi>  own 
will  (which,  hv  the  why,  I  don't  believe  she  ever  • 
in).  Well,  of  course,  I  wasn't  going  to  give  tin  girl 
iv  to  save  my  own  >kin,  even  though  she  had  bc- 
h.i\ed  like  a  lunatic.  So  I  wrote  and  refused  to  >end 
the  letters;  whereupon  the  old  boj  rounded  upon  me 
for  my  "insolent  refusal  to  comply  with  hifl  wishes," 
and  wrote  hifl  u^ual  rigmarole  about  "casting  off  and 
"renouncing  communications" — which,  as  he  hates 
ng  anyone,  is  easy  enough  for  him  to  do;  and  full 
of  mysterious  hints  about  his  will,  which  he  seems  to 
be  altering  from  day  to  day,  and  uses  as  a  weapon  to 
terrorise  all  his  belonging-. 

Well,  I  felt  inclined  to  tell  him  to  go  and  he  bio 
but  I  altered  it  into  something  about  "respect  for  his 
prejudices,"  etc.,  and  let   the  matter  drop.      Really,  I 
imagined  that   I   had   seen   the   last    of  him    for  ever. 
You  may  therefore  guesfl  how  KUrprised  I  wa>  when  at 

I  M  t  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

luncheon-time  yesterday  I  got  a  wire  from  him,  asking 
me  to  come  to  Portland  Place  at  once,  to  help  him  in 
some  "disagreeable  business."  This  seemed  to  give 
promise  of  a  good  "rag,"  though  I  couldn't  imagine 
what  it  was  about;  so  off  I  posted  to  P.  P.,  and  I 
wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  all  the  money  in  the  Bank. 

As  soon  as  Uncle  Algy  had  shut  the  door  on  you, 
he  turned  to  me  and  said,  rather  grimly,  that  though 
Barnes  (his  butler)  was  a  man  of  considerable 
sagacity,  and  of  tact  above  his  station,  still  there 
sometimes  were  contingencies  in  family  life  where  it 
was  better  to  employ  a  relation  than  a  servant,  and 
that  therefore  he  had  sent  for  me. 

This  was  characteristic,  wasn't  it?  But,  of  course, 
I  said  I  should  be  only  too  glad  if  I  could  help  him ; 
and  up  we  went  to  the  drawing-room.  The  scene 
which  there  awaited  us  was  more  like  one  of  Mrs. 
John  Wood's  plays  than  anything  in  real  life.  Lady 
Louisa  was  lying  back  in  a  large  arm-chair,  purple 
in  the  face,  and  puffing  fearfully,  but  still  talking 
nineteen  to  the  dozen  and  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

[205] 


THE   WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

Aunt  Maude  flung  her  arms  round  my  neck,  declaring 

that  I  had  slwayi  been  the  dearest  of  nephews,  and 

had  now  come  to  help  her  through  the  crisis  of  her 
life.  On  the  sofa  lay  ■  prostrate  female  form,  with 
ita  face  buried  in  the  cushions,  and  one  foot  in  the  air 
kicking  convulsively.  That  foot  I  instantly  recog- 
nised. It  was  Lilian's,  and  it  really  ifl  not  a  foot, 
but  a  good  eighteen  inches.  On  the  hearthrug 
stood  a  fellow  in  a  fur  coat,  a  red  tie,  and 
a  white  waiitcoat — an  unspeakable  bounder  to  look 
at,  but  so  evidently  feeling  himself  a  fool  that  my 
heart  relented  towards  him.  And,  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  clamjamfry,  Uncle  Algy,  rigid  and  livid  with 
inarticulate  rage.  I  was  just  wondering  what  in  thfl 
world  he  wanted  me  to  do — whether  to  cut  Lady 
Louisa's  stays,  or  assault  the  gent  in  the  fur  coat, 
or  what — when  in  came  Barms,  bearing  an  immense 
bunch  of  daffodils  with  a  card  tied  to  it.  Barnes  be- 
haved with  admirable  composure,  didn't  take  the 
slightest  notice  of  the  riot  all  round  him,  but  said  that 
i  young  lady  had  called  to  lee  Uncle  Algy,  and,  on 

[  S06  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

being  told  that  he  was  particularly  engaged,  had  left 
the  rlowers,  and  had  said  that  they  were  to  be  given 
to   him   immediately.      By   this   time   Uncle   A.   was 
literally  speechless,  so  he  motioned  to  me  to  take  the 
rlowers  and  read  the  card.    Guess  what  was  on  it !    "To 
my  Alpha  and  Omega — E.  T."     I  knew  the  writing 
only  too  well.      It    was    Elaine    Thompson's.      The 
rapture  of  catching  Uncle  Algy  in  a  flirtation  was  too 
much  for  my  prudence,  and  I  said,  after  reading  the 
inscription   aloud,   "What   a   very   affectionate   god- 
daughter!"    This  brought  things  to  a  crisis.     Uncle 
Algy   seemed  to    recover    his    self-possession    in    a 
moment.    He  quietly  put  the  poor  daffodils  in  the  fire, 
and  said  to  Aunt  Maude,  "You  seem  equally  unfor- 
tunate in  your  daughter  and  in  your  protegee."    He 
then  addressed  himself  to  Lady  Louisa.     "My  dear 
aunt,"  he  said,  "the  activity  and  energy  which  you 
have  displayed  to-day — and  are  still  displaying,  for 
I  have  a  difficulty  in  hearing  myself  speak — confirm 
the  opinion  which  I  have  often  expressed  that  your 
ill-health  is  imaginary.     No  one  except  a  very  strong 

[207  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

woman  could  move  so  quickly  directly  after  luncheon, 
or  talk  so  loud.  It  ifl  evident  that  you  have  no  need 
of  Dr.  Chubb's  furth*  r  i  rvices.  With  respect  to  your 
former  Companion,  whom,  I  presume,  we  must  now 
call  Mrs.  Chubb,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  observe  that 
I  have  seen  her  to-day  for  the  last  time.  As  to  the 
confusion  and  distress  evinced  by  Mrs.  George  Wood- 
house,  I  can  only  say  that  they  are  well  deserved. 
She  will  remember  that  I  warned  her  of  what  was 
certain  to  happen  if  she  persisted  in  bringing  her 
daughters  to  London.  She  will,  of  course,  retire 
immediately  to  Wales,  and  will  not,  I  trust,  forget 
to  return  those  articles  of  furniture  which  I  lent  her 
earlier  in  the  winter.  I  could  have  wished  to  convert 
the  loans  into  gifti,  but,  under  existing  circumstances, 
that  is,  of  course,  impossible." 

Then  turning  to  me,  the  old  boy  said,  "Francis,  I 
must  request  you  to  escort  Lady  Louisa  back  to  Bute 
Street.  Should  it  come  to  my  knowledge  that  you 
have  gossiped  at  your  Club  about  what  you  have  seen 
lure  to-day,  or  have  attempted  to  be  facetious  at  the 

[208] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

expense  of  your  family,  I  shall  be  very  seriously  dis- 
pleased. Ring  the  bell.  Barnes,  a  four-wheeled  cab 
for  her  Ladyship." 

I  have  no  time  for  more. — Ever  yours, 

Frank. 


[209] 


CHAPTER  XV III 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ioo  Portland  Place.  W., 
March   1st,   1903. 

MY  DEAR  THOMPSON,— We  do  not 
meet  as  often  as  I  could  wish ;  but  I  can 
assure  you  that  the  inf requency  of  com- 
munication between  us  has  not  been  due 
to  any  diminution  of  the  sincere  regard  in  which,  ever 
since  Oxford  days,  I  have  held  you.  My  late  wife 
had  little  or  no  genius  for  Society,  and  during  her 
lifetime  we  confined  our  dinner-list  to  those  whom,  on 
account  of  hospitalities  received  from  them,  we  in 
turn  were  bound  to  entertain.  The  phrase  "Cutlet  for 
Cutlet,"  although,  as  being  slang,  it  is  abhorrent  to 
my  taste,  still  seems  to  express,  with  a  certain  pict- 
uresque vigour,  the  duties  of  hospitality.  The 
pleasures  of  hospitality,  which  some  people  profess  to 

[213] 


THE    HTOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

feel,  I  have    ahrayi    regarded    as    pure    affectation. 
Since  my  irife'i  dcathj  my  own  impaired  health  hai 

{xlhcl  me  to  live  principally  in  the  country,  and, 
irhen  I  am,  as  now,  in  Portland  Place,  I  alwaji  feel 
that  there  would  be  no  true  kindness  in  asking  people 
to  visit  a  house  where  there  is  so  little  to  excite  or 
attract. 

It  has  thus  come  about  that  I  have  seen  practically 
nothing  of  you  or  your  family  for  several  years,  and 
I  was  proportionately  surprised  when,  early  last 
autumn,  I  received  a  letter  from  your  daughter  Ellen, 
claiming  mv  sympathy  and  help  on  the  ground  that 
the  was  my  god-daughter.  Insensibility  to  the  cry 
of  distress  has  never,  I  trust,  been  one  of  my  charac- 
teristics; and  as  (forgive  my  plainness  of  speech)  your 
daughter  seemed  to  have  an  unhappy  and  uncomfor- 
table home,  I  readily  responded  to  her  request  for 
friendly  advice.  If  I  remember  aright,  I  sent  a 
greeting  to  you  and  Mr-.  Thompson  through  her: 
and  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  are  conversant  with  the 
Correspondence,  and  with  all  that  grew  out  of  it. 

I  '-'1 1 1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

It  appears  that,  while  your  daughter  was  living 
with  my  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  George  Woodhouse,  she 
became  acquainted  with  my  nephew,  Francis  Murray ; 
and,  unless  I  am  greatly  misinformed,  she  so  forgot 
what  was  due  to  her  sex — I  say  nothing  about  her 
godfather — as  to  make  overtures  to  that  extremely 
uninteresting  youth.  Distressed  by  her  importu- 
nities, and  conscious  of  his  own  total  inability 
to  support  a  wife,  young  Murray  related  all 
the  circumstances  to  an  elderly  female  friend  of  his, 
and,  by  her  advice,  to  me.  So  far,  I  cannot  complain 
of  his  conduct ;  but,  on  my  requesting  to  see  your 
daughter's  letters,  he  abruptly,  and  even  insolently, 
refused  to  give  them  up.  Under  these  circumstances, 
nothing  remained  but  for  me  to  tell  your  daughter  as 
plainly  as  I  could  what  I  thought  of  her  conduct,  and 
to  renounce  all  further  communication  with  her. 

This  being  the  case,  you  can  easily  judge  of  my 
amazement  when  I  learned,  through  a  concatenation  of 
circumstances  too  long  to  narrate,  but  too  clear  to  be 
misunderstood,  that  your  misguided,  and — alas !  that 

[215] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

I  ihould  have   to   say    it— your   abandoned,   daugh- 
ter   had    conceived    the    insane    design    of    marry- 

ing  Mi . 

Mv  healtfa  is  not  what  it  once  was,  and  my  nerves 
bare  been   sorely   tried  by  the  thoughtlessness  and 

as  of  my  relations;  and  this  shock  induced  ■ 
cri-i-.  partly  cardiac  and  partly  cerebral,  which 
occasioned   the   most   serious   anxiety   to   my    medical 

attendant.  To  preserve  myself  against  any  possible- 
repetition  of  a  scene  which  had  nearly  destroyed  me 
irai  an  immediate  and  imperative  duty.  I  have  there- 
fore taken  what  seemed  to  me  the  only  effective 
measure,  and  have  made  an  offer  of  marriage  to  a 
young  lady  whom  for  some  months  I  have  employed 
for  massage  and  manicure.  Her  name  is  Miss  Evelyn 
Sktttles.  She  seems  healthy,  and  of  a  cheerful  dis- 
position* Having  been  married  before,  I  am  quite 
aware  of  the  risks  attendant  on  such  a  step;  but  a 
Wise  man  from  whom,  in  early  youth,  I  learned  much 
of  the  philosophy  of  lifes  was  accustomed  to  observe, 
"All    wives   despise  their   husbands,  but   they   can  be 

[*16] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

made  to   obey;  and  when  this   point  is  secured,  the 
other  does  not  signify." 

You  will,  if  you  think  fit,  announce  my  intention  to 
your  daughter ;  and  pray  believe  me,  dear  Thompson, 

sincerely  yours, 

Algernon  Wextworth-Woodhouse. 


[217] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


ioo  Portland  Pi.a*  f.  \V.. 
March  ist,   1003. 

My  DKA1  A i- nt, — If  I  remember  aright,  one  d ay 
when  vou  (Mine,  uninvited*  to  luncheon,  you  met  Miss 
Evelyn  Skettles*  When  you  next  see  her,  the  will  be 
Mr«.  \Y(  ntworth-Woodhouse.  She  is  exceedingly  m  D 
connected]  the  head  of  her  family  being  Sir  Barnet 
Skettles,  ■  baronet  of  George  the  Third's  creation. 
Miss  Skettles  has  been  well  brought  up;  thoroughly 
understands  illness;  and  is  full  of  tact  and  sympathy 
— qualities  which,  I  may  observe,  I  have  not  found 
abundant  among  my  relations  on  either  side. — Your 
affectionate  nephew,  A.  W.-W. 


[218] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


ioo  Portland  Place,  W., 
March  ist,  1903. 

Dear    Maude, — After    what    has    recently    passed 

between  us,  I  feel  that  I  am  stretching  courtesy  far 

beyond  its  natural,  and  almost  beyond  its  justifiable, 

limit,  when  I  write  to  tell  you  of  my  engagement  to 

Miss  Evelyn  Skettles.     This  young  lady  has,  by  her 

cheerfulness,  dexterity,  and  good  feeling,  contrived  to 

make  herself  indispensable  to  me,  and  I  feel  confident 

that  she  will  comport  herself  admirably  as  Mrs.  Went- 

worth-Woodhouse,  and  mistress  of  Feversham  Hall. — 

Yours  affectionately, 

Algernon. 


[219] 


CHAPTER  XIX 


CHAPTER   XIX 

IN   FAREWELL   TO   THE   MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN. 
(On  hearing  of  a  Friend's  Engagement.) 

In  a  drear-nighted  December — 

Unhappy,  happy  Me — 
I  sit  and  I  remember 

Beneath  my  Ilex  tree ; 
And  Passion's  dying  ember 

Leaps  up  and  glows  for  Thee 

This  bough,  this  stark  dead  member, 

In  Spring  with  buds  is  set, 
And  thus  in  bleak  December 

My  tree  is  living  yet. 
So,  if  thou  wilt,  remember — 

And,  if  thou  canst,  forget. 

MAY  I  send  you    this  versicle,    with    the 
deepest  hopes,  the  deepest  faith,  may  I 
add  the  deepest  love  of  a  lifetime?    And 
yet  I  would  fain  add  one  line — and  then 
let  us  for  ever  be  silent.    You  know  that  Mrs.  George 

[223] 


THE    WOODHOUSE   CORRESPONDENCE 

Woodhonse  and  I  arc  parting  from  one  another.  And 
I  am  going  home.  Long,  arduou-,  has  been  the  strug- 
gle between  Art  and  Duty — not  the  conventional  duty 
towards  Parents,  tin  duty  of  the  Decalogue — but  the 
Higher  Duty  of  raising  the  moral,  the  intellectual 
tone  of  my  poor  heart h>tone.  It — the  moral  tone,  I 
mean — haJ  Badlj  gone  down  since  I  left  my  fatlu  r*l 
roof.  It  is  impossible  not  to  own  it ;  and  it  was  last 
in  ek,  when  I  found  my  parents  and  my  USteCT  actually 
playing  (dare  I  tell  you?)  at  Ping-Pong,  that  at  last 
I  measured  the  real  issues  of  my  absence.  I  will  return 
there,  with  my  Life-Work.  For  "The  Woof- Warp," 
like  all  lasting  things,  has  not  yet  found  a  publisher; 
it  came  back,  I  am  proud  to  say,  from  Smudge  & 
Scrimgeour  on  the  very  day  that  I  visited  my  family. 
Had  it  been  accepted,  the  compliment  would  have  been 
a  poor  one.  Truth  cannot  so  soon  find  a  harbour. 
But  it  is  expensive  to  wait.  The  cost  of  daily 
existence  demands  vulgar  success,  and  certain  com- 
forts are  essential  to  refined  and  highly  strung 
natures.     Courage  is  needed  to  own  this,  but  courage 

[  224  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

is  the  law  of  my  being.  So  I  will  face  the  Rut  man- 
fully, and  go  back  with  patient  endurance.  I  will 
lift  those  that  are  mine;  I  will  watch  that  they  do  not 
lapse.  I  will  sit  once  more  in  the  old  drawing-room, 
alone,  yet  not  alone,  for  my  Yersicles  and  my  Spirit 
will  be  with  me,  and  I  will  bear  my  burden,  as  I  have 
always  borne  it,  with  none  to  help  me.  My  heart 
has  been  pierced  by  Life.  That  heart  may  be  heavy, 
but  it  is  rich — rich  in  experience  and  in  a  kind  of 
bitter  wisdom.  I  will  sit  still  till  the  Twilight ;  I  will 
write  till  the  darkness  falls.  But  the  darkness  is  full 
of  stars,  and  my  home  shall  be  lighted  by  Poetry — 
my  Poetry.     Think  of  me;  teach  her>  your  Wife,  to 

think  of  me — of 

Elaine. 

You  may  be  glad  to  hear  that  the  new  weekly 
paper  "Snippets"  has  accepted  a  little  poem  of  mine. 
They  talk  of  "merely  nominal  payment,"  but  I  care 
little  for  that.  It  will  be  in  print,  and  I  shall  have 
served  Art. 

[  225  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


Bute  Street, 
irsday. 

I)r\u  Algernon, — I  cannot  hide  from  you  that  it 
in  effort  to  me  to  write,  after  your  raise,  brutal, 

and  unpardonable  words  about  in v  health.  Hut, 
though  vou  Mem  to  forget  the  fact,  vou  arc  still  my 
nephew  and  I  am  unfortunately  your  aunt — and 
therefore  I  resume  my  pen  to  tell  you  of  inv  disgust 
and  amazement  at  the  news  of  your  engagement* 
That  a  plain,  elderly  egoist  like  yourself,  with  no 
persona]  charms,  should  think  of  marriage  is  to  me 
revolting ;  hut  that,  hale  as  you  are,  your  choice  should 
fall  on  a  masseuse,  fills  me  with  positive  dlsmaif.  I 
could  not  have  believed  that  your  hysteria  (for  inch 
alwayi  been  the  true  name  of  your  absurd  com- 
plaint) could  have  so  far  deteriorated  you  as  to  make 
you  Mek  for  a  wife  who  could  minister  to  it.  Such  a 
WOman  ll  DO  better  than  a  Pagan  Slave,  and  is  evi- 
dently taking  you  because  of  the  one  attraction  you 

r  m  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

can  offer — your  wealth.  I,  for  one,  refuse  to  receive 
either  of  }ou  in  my  house.  The  gentle  exercise  that 
has  now,  by  the  goodness  of  Providence,  become  once 
more  possible  to  me,  is  all-important;  and,  as  the 
slightest  shock  to  my  very  exceptional  Nervous  Sys- 
tem may  again  destroy  my  powers  of  moving,  it  is 
essential  that  I  should  live  in  perfect  calm. 

I  hope  that  no  one  may  be  so  demented  as  to  give 
you  a  wedding-present.  It  would  make  you  too 
ridiculous.  Your  first  wife  may  have  been  a  poor 
creature,  but,  at  any  rate,  she  was  a  lady. 

For  the  sake  of  Christianity,  I  will  still  sign  myself 

your  affectionate  aunt, 

Louisa  Fitzwigan. 


[227] 


THE   WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


Aboukir  Mansicv. 
Thursday  Mom-.ng. 

I)  \r  Algernon, — Harsh  though  you  have  been 
to  me  and  mine,  I  feel  that  I  must  write  on  hearing 
the  news  of  your  engagement.  I  own  that  it  amaMfd 
mr.  At  your  age,  and  after  all  the  condemnation  I 
have  heard  you  lavish  upon  unequal  matches  and  the 
women  who  accepted  men  for  money,  it  is  certainly 
strange  to  find  you  about  to  marry  such  an  one  your- 
self. I,  at  all  events,  was  not  a  M aM euse,  but  a  Quin- 
tilian,  when  I  married  George,  and  he  was  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  century  younger  than  you  when  he 
married  me.  You  can  really  have  very  little  to  >-iy 
about  the  Chubbs  after  this,  and  I  may  as  well  take  the 
opportunity  of  telling  you  that  I  intend  living  with 
them  for  the  next  few  years  at  Surbiton.  I  have  been 
made  Fashion  Correspondent  to  "Snippets,"  the  new 
and  verv  smart  weekly,  and  I  shall  come  up  to  town  at 
least  once  a  week  to  glean  information.     The  Editor 

[  228  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

is  a  personal  friend  of  my  own  and  of  Miss  Thomp- 
son's. She  (Ellen)  will  doubtless  let  you  know  about 
her  future  plans. 

I  wish  you  and  the  lady  you  have  chosen  all  the 
happiness  which  you  expect.  My  knowledge  of  you 
leads  me  to  suppose  that  she  will  continue  her  pro- 
fessional career;  I  hear  it  is  a  very  lucrative  one. — 
Yours  affectionately, 

Maude  Q.  Woodhouse. 


[229] 


CHAPTER   XX 


CHAPTER   XX 

Cheyne  Row, 

Friday. 

DEAR  FRANK, — Have  you  seen  the  splen- 
did review  of  your  "Pleasures  of  a  Sports- 
man" in  the  Times  to-day?  I  feel  sure 
that  you  are  a  made  man,  and  I  hear  on 
all  hands  that  the  book  is  having  the  artistic  success 
that  it  deserves,  besides  the  popular  financial  one. 
Smudge  &  Scrimgeour  will  not  easily  let  hold  of  you 
now !  Dear  Frank,  I  am  so  thankful  that  success  has 
come  to  you.  For  some  people  one  is  peevish  enough 
to  regret  it;  it  either  poisons  their  opinion  of  them- 
selves or  incites  them  to  produce  tons  of  seventh-rate 
art,  adding  largely  to  the  wilderness  of  bad  taste 
which  now  hems  us  in  on  every  side.  But  for  you, 
success  is  a  kind  of  music — march-music,  which  urges 

[233] 


TIIK    WOODHOUSE   CORRESPONDENCE 

vnu  to  I  quicker  and  happier  pace.  I  believe  in 
1  thing*  (and  had  things)  coming  all  at  once,  and 
I  was  not  in  the  least  surprised  when,  just  after 
n  ading  the  review  of  your  book,  I  heard  of  the  death 
of  old  Mr>.  Stone.  So  now  your  purse  is  free  again; 
and,  in  consequence,  I  am  going  to  be  very  bold. 
Allow  me  to  tell  you  there  is  no  earthly  reason  now 
why  you  should  not  marry,  and  every  reason  why  you 
should.  Do  not  believe  that  it  is  that  much-discussed 
topic,  your  uncle's  unseemly  marriage,  that  makes  me 
anxious  on  his  nephew's  behalf.  But,  like  most  happv 
unmarried  people,  I  have  a  profound  belief  in  mar- 
riage, and  a  desire  to  thrust  that  natural  solution  of 
life  on  every  one  excepting  myself.  The  married,  think 
goodness,  have  not  the  monopoly  of  Illogic — which  I 
always  maintain  is  a  science  much  more  necessarv  to 
study  than  Logic:  everybody  is  illogical,  and  life 
would  be  quite  insane  if  they  weren't.  It  is  onlv  the 
mad  who  demand  absolute  logic,  and  the  place  at  which 
people  great  or  little,  begin  to  do  Una,  i*  the  place 
where  their  reason   is   in   danger.      (Look  at   Tolstoi 

[KM  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

or  Ruskin,  if  you  doubt  this!)  However,  this  is  one 
of  my  feeble  digressions,  and  I  come  back  to  matri- 
mony. It  is  the  right  thing  for  all  men,  but  most 
particularly  for  you.  You  don't  like  solitude,  and 
you  need  (may  I  say  so?)  the  kind  of  sympathy  that 
only  women  can  give.  Of  course,  you  can  get  this, 
in  a  dislocated  fashion,  outside  marriage ;  but  then  it 
is  not  the  all-surrounding  atmosphere  which  is  what 
men  need  and  only  a  wife  can  give.  And  if  men 
forego  this,  it  always  seems  to  me  that  the  unfortunate 
creatures  pay  a  penalty  and  narrow  their  own  sympa- 
thies. They  rust  and  crust  and  get  encased  in  set 
habits ;  and,  nice  though  you  are,  if  you  remain 
single,  this  fate  is  almost  sure  to  befall  you.  The 
world  at  this  moment  seems  full  of  intelligent,  warm- 
hearted girls,  much  more  equipped  for  companion- 
ship than  the  young  women  of  my  generation.  I  don't 
mean  one  of  your  hygienic,  gymnastic  Egerias,  the 
kind  of  golf  pedant  who  makes  the  trapese  into  an 
article  of  religion,  or  the  intellectual  pedant,  or  the 
frivolous  pedant  who  splits  hairs  about  chic,  or,  indeed, 

[  235  ] 


THE  wooniiorsi;  correspondence 

any  ]x  (Lint  at  all.  Don't,  an'  you  reaped  mi',  choose 
anything  solemn,  and  do  choose  mihu-oiic  who  enjoys. 

I-n't  that  the  one  thing  needful?    And  J-n't  that  the 
ility  which  Menu  to  exist  much  more  sincerely  for 

the  women   of  to-day    than    for   their   grandmothers? 

We  are  allowed  free  play  for  all  our  faculties,  while 
they  were  often  forced  into  false  >enthnenl  by  their 
narrow  possibilities ;  sentiment,  indeed,  Beemfl  to  have 
been  the  only  accessible  distraction  of  such  women  as 
were  not  rich.  But  I  don't  know  why  I  am  preaching 
this  sermon  to  3'ou,  who  have  to  choose  for  yourself 
and  are  a  much  wiser  person  for  yourself  than  I  am! 
Anyhow,  don't  let  the  grass  grow  too  long  under  your 
feet,  or  the  delicious  little  daisies  of  domestic  happi- 
ness will  be  smothered.  And  forgive  my  indelicacy, 
and  forgive  my  prosincss,  and  tell  me  anything  you 
can  of  your  uncle  and  his  Fatima — only,  as  she  is  an 
elderly  Fatima,  I  hope  she  will  be  irise  and  a-k  for  no 
keys. — Your  affectionate  friend, 

Barbara   Moore. 

f  f$6  1 


THE   WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


Bachelors'  Club, 
March  28th. 

Dear  Miss  Moore, — It  is  awfully  kind  of  you  to 
write  about  the  book.  Of  course,  it  would  be  humbug 
if  I  pretended  that  I  was  not  pleased  by  the  notice  in 
the  Times;  but  I  don't  feel  at  all  sure  about  the  future. 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  used  up  all  my  ideas  (such  as  they 
are)  in  this  one  book,  and  I  don't  fancy  old  Smudge 
will  be  able  to  get  much  more  flesh  off  my  bones.  (By 
the  way,  Smudge  is  not  at  all  a  bad  chap.  It  is 
"Sandy"  Scrimgeour  who  is  such  a  terror — a  "dour 
Scot"  all  over.) 

Poor  old  Mrs.  Stone !  She  was  a  good  old  soul,  and 
awfully  kind  to  me  when  I  was  a  boy.  And  she  was 
mixed  up  with  all  sorts  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  asso- 
ciations. But  you  know  my  home-story,  so  I  need  not 
go  into  all  that  now.  Of  course,  it  is  a  relief  not  to 
have  to  squeeze  out  that  little  sum  which  I  used  to 
send  the  poor  old  lady  periodically.  I  should  have 
been  a  brute  if  I  hadn't  done  it ;  but  at  the  same  time, 

[237  ] 


THE    vVOODHOUSE    OORRESPONDENCB 

D  one  has  only  I  v<  ry  -mall  income,  it  is  more  con- 
lent  to  haw  no  extra  rails  on  it. 

About  marriage,  I  hardly  know  what  to  Bay.    Apart 

m  anything  eke,  I  don't  think  I  could  "run  to  it" 
for  a  good  many  yean  yet  You  know  I  rather  bar 
i  .  Pge  Eliot,  but  there  is  one  Baying  of  hers — a  kind 
of  proverb—  I  forget  which  hook  it  comes  in — which 
I  have  always  thought  rather  good:  "He  had  catched 
a  gnat  cold,  who  had  no  other  covering  than  the 
skin  of  a  bear  not  vet  killed."  And  that  would  be 
about  mv  case  if  I  began  to  frame  matrimonial  plans 
on  the  strength  of  those  books  which,  according  to 
your  kind  prophecy,  I  am  to  write  some  day. 

But,  whatever  happens,  you  may  rest  assured  that 
I  -hall  never  marry  a  girl-athlete,  nor  an  aesthete,  nor 
a  blue-stocking.  A-  you  Bay,  a  girl  ought  to  be  able 
to  "enjoy."  But  :^Juit  is  she  to  enjoy?  I  shouldn't 
much  care  for  a  girl  who  enjoyed  cutting  up  live 
animals,  or  smoking  cigar-,  or  writing  papers  on 
Browning. —  Ever  yon:  Frank. 

P.S. — As   to   the   Happy    Couple:      of   COUTSC   you 

[  <>.'}8  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

know  that  they  were  married  at  the  Registrar's,  much 
to  the  disgust  of  the  Skettles  family,  who  had  hoped 
for  a  smart  wedding;  and  they  went  to  Biarritz  for 
the  honeymoon,  as  the  doctors  told  Uncle  Algy  he 
wanted  Sun.  I  hear  that  he  bought  the  Times  at 
Victoria,  and  gave  Mrs.  Woodhouse  the  outside  sheet. 


[239] 


CHAPTER  XXI 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Cheyne  Row, 
Easter  Monday. 

MY  DEAR  FRANK,  —I  am  writing  to  give 
you  a  piece  of  unimportant  news ;  onh', 
as  it  affects  me,  I  know  you  will  like  to 
hear  it.  I  am  taking  unto  myself  a 
house-mate — for  a  time,  at  all  events.  You  will,  I 
think,  recall  Celia  Dunthorne,  whom  you  met  when 
you  stayed  with  the  Roders?  I  remember  your 
describing  her  to  me  as  the  girl  who  was  equally  good 
at  riding  and  painting,  and  your  being  surprised  at 
discovering  she  was  my  cousin,  several  times  removed. 
Her  father,  always  regarded  as  a  rich  country  gentle- 
man, died  suddenly  three  weeks  ago,  and  has  actually 
left  her  penniless.  It  turns  out  that  for  the  last  five 
years  he  has  speculated  recklessly.    Celia  was  his  only 

[243] 


THE    WOODIIorSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

child,  and  instead  of  being  the  heiress  we  have  all 

Imagined,  she  WlD  now,  poor  girl,  have  to  do  some- 
thing for  her  living.  "Penniless"  is  generally  a  com- 
parative word,  and  she  has  about  a  hundred  of  her 

own:  but  she  is  coining  to  live  With  me  and  be  my 
companion,  and  will  try  to  do  something  with  her 
painting.  I  have  always  had  an  especial  affection 
for  her,  and  a  liking  for  her  quiet  wit  and  h<  r  way 
of  looking  at  life.  Happy  as  I  already  am,  I  am 
surprised  at  the  pleasure  with  which  I  look  forward 
to  seeing  someone  adequate  in  the  other  arm-chair  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace.  Even  one's  book  has 
a  second  life  if  one  can  now  and  then  look  up  and  com- 
ment on  it,  or  read  aloud  a  passage  to  a  sympathetic 
listener — who  will  do  the  same  by  you.  Not  that  a 
hook'-  first  life  is  not  good  enough,  but  there  is  some- 
thing intensifying  in  the  lens  of  a  good  comrs 
mind;  refracted  light  ifl  by  far  the  most  exhilarating. 
H<  sides,  I  hate  to  feel  that  I  am  growing  set  in  my 
habits,  and  I  believe  that  living  alone  makes  rather  a 
V  ro  of  one.     Have  you  ev<  r  noticed  that  people  who 

f  244  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

live  alone  speak  in  louder  voices  than  those  who  do 
not?  And  I  think  too,  that  I  can  make  Celia  Dun- 
thorne  happy,  which  is  by  far  the  most  important  con- 
sideration in  the  matter.  When  will  you  come  and 
renew  acquaintance  with  her?  You  would  find  us 
both  at  eight  o'clock  supper  on  Sunday ;  no  one  else 
will  be  here,  excepting,  possibly,  my  brother. 

I  should  have  answered  your  last  letter  long  before 
this,  but  all  these  new  arrangements  have  taken  up 
my  time  and  attention.  Your  account  of  Mr.  Wood- 
house's  Honey,  or,  rather,  Bitter-Aloes-Moon,  amused 
me  immensely.  What  will  become  of  his  poor 
demented  Fatima,  who  has  no  Sister  Anne  to  console 
and  no  Conrad  to  rescue  her?  And  an  Invalid  Blue- 
beard into  the  bargain  !  What  a  fate !  The  original 
Bluebeard  was,  at  least,  well — almost  too  well — and 
was  in  the  habit  of  going  out,  but  your  uncle  will 
always  be  there. 

As  to  the  rest  of  your  letter,  of  course  you  are 
right.  All  that  I  meant  was,  don't  wait  too  long  for 
the  impossible;  the  possible  so  often  produces,  nay, 

[  245  ] 


THE  WOODHOUSE  CORRESPONDENCE 

contains  it,  and  we  constantly  miss  happiness  because 
it   in  BO  near  us  and  we  are  looking  fixedly  ahead 

Don't  forget  to  bring  me  back  my  book*,  if  you 
come  on  Sunday.  We  will  dlSCUBfl  tin m.  and  as  many 
other  things  as  you  please,  when  we  meet.  Mean- 
while I  am,  as  ever,  your  affectionate  friend, 

Barbara  Moore. 


[  «« 1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 


Bachelors'   Club, 
April   15th. 

Dear  Miss  Moore, — Many  thanks.  I  will  come 
to  supper  next  Sunday  with  great  pleasure,  and  will 
bring  the  books.  I  shall  enjoy  meeting  Miss  Dun- 
thorne  again.  We  had  some  splendid  rides  together 
in  the  New  Forest,  and  she  gave  me  two  capital 
sketches  which  she  had  made — one  at  Beaulieu,  with  a 
view  of  the  sea,  and  the  other  near  Malwood,  with  Sir 
William  Harcourt  walking  in  his  garden  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening,  like  our  First  Parents. 

I  am  awfully  sorry  she  has  been  left  so  badly  off. 
What  business  had  her  old  idiot  of  a  father  to  go 
speculating?  What  beasts  one's  relations  are! — often 
are,  I  mean.  By  the  way,  have  you  heard  Uncle 
Algy's  latest?  When  he  and  the  bride  get  back  from 
"the  amorous  moon  of  honeycomb,"  as  Q.  calls  it,  he 
is  going  to  have  a  great  gathering  of  cousins  to  stay 
at  Feversham.     What  is  so  very  characteristic  of  him 

[247] 


THE  WOODHOUSE  CORRESPONDENCE 

is  tlu'  way  \w  is  sending  out  his  invitations.     He  has 
Instructed  his  solicitor — old  Perkins,  of  Gray's  Inn — 

to  make  a  list  of  all  his  nephews  and  nieces,  fir>t  and 
ond  cousins,  and  first  cousins  once  removed  on  both 
sides. 

Then  he  is  going  to  strike  out  those  who  have 
offend  d  him,  and  invite  the  remainder.  This  will  both 
make  the  offenders  feel  uncomfortable,  and  will  also 
reduce  the  expenses  of  the  part}' — which  will  not  be 
a  large  one.  after  the  striking-out  is  finished.  Do  you 
think  I  shall  get  an  invitation?  Honestly,  I  think  I 
ought,  as  a  reward  for  my  exertions  in  getting  Lady 
Louisa  home,  after  that  awful  scene  in  Portland  Place. 
I  thought  she  would  have  expired  in  the  four-wheel*  r : 
and  when  she  got  back  to  Bute  Street  she  drank  brown 
rry  till  she  was  in  "a  state  of  doubtful  ebriety,"  as 
the  lady  novelist  said. 

Put  the  best  thing  of  all  was  what  Uncle  Algy  said 
in  his  letter  to  old  Perkins  when  he  instructed  him  to 
make  this  h\t.  I  heard  it  from  young  Harry  Perkins, 
who  is   in   his   uncle's  office,  and  who  was  my   fag  at 

f  M8  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

Harrow.  Uncle  A.  began  his  letter — "I  recognise  no 
obligation  to  love  one's  relations  ;  but  it  is  more  conven- 
ient  not  to  hate  them."  More  convenient!  Lm*t  that 
Uncle  A.  all  over  ? 

An  revoir  Sunday.     Affectionately  yours, 

Frank. 


[249] 


CHAPTER  XXII 


CHAPTER  XXII 

The  Hall,  Feversham-sur- Strand, 
April  25**,  1903. 

DEAR  MR.  PERKINS,— I  address  you 
with  a  familiarity  unusual  in  one's  deal- 
ings with  professional  advisers,  on  ac- 
count of  the  long-standing  connexion 
— I  had  almost  said  friendship — which  has  subsisted 
between  my  family  and  yours.  My  father  frequently 
stated  his  belief  that  his  affairs  were  by  far  the  most 
considerable  which  were  ever  entrusted  to  the  care  of 
your  firm ;  and  I  distinctly  remember  him  saying  that 
he  had  been  shocked,  and  even  pained,  by  the  untimely 
decease  of  his  solicitor — your  father — who,  if  I  recol- 
lect aright,  died  here  from  sleeping  in  a  damp  bed, 
when  he  came  down  for  the  winter  audit,  after  the 

[253] 


THE   WOODHOUSB    CORRESPONDENCE 

house  had  been  .shut  up  for  several  months.  This 
incident  M  I  DM,  in  a  sense,  to  link  our  families  together, 
and  makes  it  less  difficult  for  me  to  approach  the 
nglj  delicate  subject  with  which  this  letter  is 
concern  <1. 

You  arc  of  course,  aware  that  I  lately  contracted 
a  second  marriage.  The  propriety  of  that  step  I  did 
not,  and  do  not,  consent  to  discuss  with  any  advisers, 
professional  or  other.  But  you,  who  are  conversant 
with  the  fact,  are  also  aware  that  I  carefully  avoided 
making  any  settlements  upon  the  second  Mrs.  Wood- 
house.  It  seemed  to  me  preposterous  that  a  young 
woman  raised,  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  from  the 
ranks  of  manual  labour  (however  well  connected), 
should  expect  an  independent  income  in  the  event  of 
certain  contingencies  which  may  perhaps  be  long 
delayed.  Indeed,  I  may  go  further,  and  say  I  hoped 
that  the  consciousness  that  she  was  dependent  upon 
me  for  the  v<  rv  unaccustomed  luxuries  and  advantages 
which  she  now  enjoyed,  would  secure,  not  only  that 
careful  attention  to  my  health  which  is  of  course  the 

[  M I  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

paramount  consideration,  but  also  a  scrupulous  regard 
for  my  wishes  and  tastes  even  in  matters  apparently 
insignificant. 

This  being  the  case,  you  will  judge  of  my  aston- 
ishment, and  I  may  add  my  just  indignation,  when 
during  our  sojourn  at  Biarritz  I  found  Mrs.  Wood- 
house  considerably  more  intent  on  pleasure  than  on  her 
domestic  duties.     The  first  unfavourable  sign  which  I 
noticed  was  an  unwillingness  to  read  aloud  articles 
from  the  Economist  when  I  was  troubled  with  sleep- 
lessness at  nights.     This,  I  may  observe,  was  a  task 
which  my  dear  first  wife   (though  herself  a  sufferer 
from  bronchial  asthma)  discharged,  if  not  cheerfully, 
at  least  willingly.    Since  her  death,  it  had  devolved  on 
my  servant  Barnes,  whose  failure  to  read  intelligibly, 
especially  when  aroused  from  sleep,  often  irritated  my 
nerves,  and  did  me  distinct  harm,  instead  of  good.    In 
marrying  a  second  time,  I  naturally  looked  forward  to 
intelligent  reading,  animated  yet  soothing,  and  had 
hopes  that  it  might  take  the  place  of  bromide,  and  even 
enable  me  to  dispense  with  my  hop-pillow.     To  my 

[255  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

great  wirprise,  Mr-.  Woodbouae  m  far  forgo!  irhat 

doc   to  mc,  and  eren   to  herself,  as  to  denounce 
the  Economist    u  "gibb  rMi,"  and  to  declare  that 
had  "no  notion  of  being  kept  awake  all  eight  after 

working  like  a  slave  all  day."  In  what,  you  will 
naturally  ask,  did  that  work  consist?  At  the  most, 
it  never  amounted  to  more  than  carrying  mv  camp- 
stool  (for  I  am  easily  fatigued)  and  my  green  um- 
brella (for  I  dread  strong  sun).  Even  these  light 
ta>ks.  which  surely  should  have  been  labours  of  love, 
Mr-.  Woodhouse  forsook  in  favour  of  donkey-rides  on 
the  shore  and  expeditions  to  the  neighbouring  moun- 
tains. She  even  went  so  far  as  to  buy  a  handbook 
of  the  Basque  language,  and  to  say,  with  deliberate 
heartlessness,  that  if  I  wanted  reading  to  at  night  she 
would  read  that;  and,  if  Basque  didn't  send  me  to 
sleep,  nothing  would. 

You  will  readily  understand  that,  under  these  cir- 
cumstance^.  my  sojourn  at  Biarritz  was  not  an  agree- 
able .  \jm  tience.  T  am  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  make, 
anreaaonablc  demands,  or  to  expect  wiadom  from  a 

[  W6  J 


THE    WOODIIOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

young  woman  at  a  period  of  life  too  often  given  over 
to  amusement.  Endeavouring  to  regard  the  whole  case 
in  the  calm  light  of  reason,  and  laying  aside  all  purely 
personal  considerations,  I  tried  to  persuade  myself 
that  Mrs.  Woodhouse's  demeanour  (so  unlike  what  I 
had  a  right  to  expect)  arose  from  a  not  unnatural 
elatioii  at  the  great  and  sudden  change  in  her  circum- 
stances. The  luxuries  of  a  first-rate  hotel,  constant 
carriage  exercise,  and  new  clothes  of  the  latest  (and, 
I  may  add,  the  most  preposterous)  fashions,  constituted 
such  an  entirely  novel  entourage  that  a  weak  and 
frivolous  nature  might  easily  be  thrown  off  its  balance. 
I  comforted  myself  with  the  reflection  that,  when  we 
returned  to  England,  the  dignity  and  order  of  our 
daily  life  at  Feversham,  coupled  with  the  conscious- 
ness that  I  filled,  however  unworthily,  a  position  of 
considerable  importance  in  the  County,  and  repre- 
sented a  long-descended  tradition  both  of  wealth  and 
of  breeding,  would  recall  Mrs.  Woodhouse  to  a  sense 
of  her  duty.  In  this  hope — not,  I  must  confess,  very 
confidently  entertained — I  returned  to  England  imme- 

[257] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

'<  lv  after  Easter.  You  will  recollect  that  I  gave 
veil  instructions  to  prepare,  from  the  "Peerage"  and 
the  "Landed  Gentry,"  a  list  of  my  near  relations  on 
both  sides.  From  that  list  I  eliminated  all  those  who, 
at  different  times  and  in  different  ways,  had  shown 
themselves  unworthy  of  my  countenance.  The 
remainder  I  invited  to  a  family  party  here,  and  I 
looked  forward  with  some  curiosity  to  seeing  how  Mrs. 
Woodhouse  would  comport  herself  in  the  capacity  of 
hostess.  The  results  proved  grievous  even  beyond  my 
worst  expectations.  She  denounced  my  sisters  (who, 
though  not  young,  are  well-bred  and  conversable 
women)  as  "frumps."  When  she  ought  to  have  been 
doing  the  honours  of  the  house  to  my  married  cousins 
and  their  daughters,  she  persisted  in  playing  billiards 
with  the  curate — a  most  objectionable  youth,  fresh 
from  Oxford.  In  the  evenings,  when  I  suggested 
music  (for  my  eldest  niter  was  no  inconsiderable 
pianist  in  her  day),  Mrs.  Woodhouse  proposed 
Bridge :  and,  when  I  offered  to  read  aloud  some 
remarks  on  the  Incidence  of  Taxation  which  I  thought 

[  258  ] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

of  sending  to  the  Economist,  she  expressed  her  prefer- 
ence for  a  comic  song. 

But,  distressing  as  all  this  was,  it  amounted,  after 
all,  only  to  social  delinquency.  It  stopped  short  of 
(though  it  may  have  approached)  personal  disrespect 
to  myself  or  indifference  to  my  health.  But  the  crown- 
ing outrage  was  not  long  withheld.  The  prevalence 
of  northeast  winds  made  me  more  than  usually  con- 
scious of  rheumatic  pains  flying  about  my  system. 
For  such  pains,  as  of  course  you  are  aware,  massage 
is  the  remedy.  One  evening,  therefore,  when  the  dis- 
comfort had  been  unusually  trying,  I  rang  the  bell  for 
hand-candlesticks  at  10  p.m.,  saying  to  my  guests,  by 
way  of  apology  for  leaving  them,  "Now  it  is  time 
for  Mrs.  Woodhouse  to  give  me  my  massage." 

You  will  scarcely  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that, 
before  the  words  were  well  out  of  my  mouth,  Mrs. 
Woodhouse,  who  was  teaching  the  curate  a  game  of 
cards  called  Casino,  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  audible  to 
the  whole  room,  "How  selfish  you  are !  Can't  you  see 
I  am  busy?     Go  along  to  bed  and  massage  yourself. 

[259] 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENT  E 

And,  if  \  on  want  any  manicun  .  get    Harm  ^  to  do  it. 

I  reallj  haven't  common  patience  with  vou." 

I  have  now   laid   f><  t  u   the  whole  of  t 

talc  of  ingratitude  and  indelii  Mrs,  Woodb 

'ill  inv  wife,  and  that  circumstance  forbids  me  to 
employ  the  stronger  language  which  your  own  lei 

of  what    ifl   due  to  me   will    naturally   Supply.      In   the 

nwhilr,  I  must  a>k  vou,  at  my  legal  adviser,  and 

also  a-  a   husband  and  a   man  of  the  world,  to  ad. 

•  rally  on  this  most   painful  case. — Yours   faith- 
fully. 

Algernon    WSKTWOETH-WOODHOUI    . 

T.   Perkins.   Esq., 
Gray's  Inn  Square. 


[  L>60  ] 


CHAPTER   XXIII 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

THESE  pages  from  a  Woman's  Diary  are 
to  be  kept  with  my  Will  and  with  the 
small  MS.  volume  in  my  desk, — to  wit, 
"The  Versicles  of  a  Lonely  Spirit," — and, 
at  my  death,  I  desire  that  they  shall  be  given  to  Alger- 
non Woodhouse,  of  Feversham-sur-Strand,  inscribed 
with  these  simple  words :  "In  remembrance  of 
Elaine." 

If  he  be  no  longer  there,  I  desire  my  executor  to 
commit  the  said  Diar}7,  unread,  to  the  flames,  unless 
he  should  deem  it  to  be  of  any  service  to  the  Com- 
munity, in  which  case  he  may  use  it  for  the  public 
good.  Elaine  Thompson. 

May  Day,  1903. 


r  263 1 


Tin:   woodiiouse  CORRESPONDENCE 

Saturday  morning.— Despatched  "The  Woof- 
Warp*'  bj  parcels  post  (Is.  9£d.)  to  Messrs.  Brandmu 
1  Co,    II  nc  decided,  for  mj  SouPi  lake,  not  to  ihare 

the  family  breakfast  :  it  is  a  mere  frittering  of  mi 
intellect,  and  I  can  do  no  good  M  I  irlv  by  my  pi 

Par  it  is  impossible  to  prevent  trivial  comments  on 
the  post,  or  1 1 )  \   father's  n  iding  out  of  the  Tin 

which  takes  up  the  whole  nual.  I  ate  mi  grapr  nuts 
in  solitude,  and  felt  that  I  possi  BSed  my  soul.  I  came 
down  at  ten  o'clock,  and  was  urged  to  an  outburst  of 
just  anger,  on  principle,  when  I  found  n  r  doing 

household  accounts  at  the  only  writing-table  in  the 
drawing-room.  There  is  all  the  difference  between 
thifl  anger  and  persona]  irritation.  .  .  .  She  actually 
Called  in.'  lelfish,  hut  my  Will-power  prevailed,  and 
found  she  could  quite  well  do  the  accounts  on  her 
knee.  Thus  I  taught  her  Resource  as  well  bj  a  due 
Altruism  and  a  sense  of  proportion.      Hut   it    WSJ  at 

the  expense  of  my  Muse.    Only  wrote  one  line. 
At    eventide, — Felt    very,    lery    lonely.      There 

led  none  left  to  whom  to  write  a  Sonnet — none,  I 

I  M I  1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

mean,  who  would  care  and  understand — none  great 
and  pure  and  passionate.  Wrote  a  Sonnet  to  Myself. 
Out  of  solitude  the  spirit  speaks,  and  much  is  born 
in  silence. 

TO    MYSELF. 

O  Thou  Who,  though  men  flee,  art  always  there, 
Thou  Who  canst  never  leave  me  till  I  die : 
Where  wert  Thou  born,  Bud  of  Eternity? 
Who  taught  Thee  thus  to  love  and  do  and  dare? 
Is  it  a  law  that  Titan  souls  must  bear 
The  dreary  denseness  of  the   smaller  fry? 
That  Thou,  Who  feedest  on  the  higher  air, 
Canst  never,  never  know  the  reason  why? 
Stride  on,  Myself!     Stride  onward,  anywhere, 
So  long  as  Thou  art  moving.     Far  and  nigh 
Foes  strike :  some  of  Thy  blood — some  even  share 
Thy  roof-tree.     Still  stride  on,  with  nostrils  high, 
Human,  yet  godlike;  dusk,  yet  passing  fair; 
Mine  own,  yet  not  mine  own — my  Cosmic  I ! 

Is  it  not  true  that  we  never  know  when  we  put  forth 
our  Best? 

Thursday.— "The  Woof-Warp"  back  again.  This 
is  the  eighth  time.  I  feel  very,  very  weary,  but  I  must 
remember  that  I  am  the  servant  of  Art.     I  will  send 

[265] 


THi;    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

it  on  again  to  M<  ssrs.  Dole  tV  Dourson.  .  .  .  Ai  I 
VTOtc  these  Hon  1^  there  came  a  letter  from  Mrs.  George 
rVoodboase  asking  me  if  I  still  sought  employment. 
A  frit  nd  of  hen  si  Burbiton  ii  conm -c-ti  d  with  the 
Spasmon  Food  Depdt,  and  the  Company  is  looking 
out  for  i  feminine  assistant.    "She  most  be  ».  p<  rfect 

lady    and    an    Enthusiast  ;    above    all,    she   must    DC   an 

Expert  in  writing  prose  and  Terse,  ai  they  arc  in  need 

of  attractive  advert isements.n     So  says  mv  friend. 

My  first  impulse  is  to  shrink — and  yet — and  yet — 
ii  \  thing  andean?  Is  not  the  term  "attractive  ad- 
\t  rtiM-uu nts"  a  mere  paraphrase  for  something  higher 
— for  an  Art  ennohled  and  purified,  free  of  lelf,  sub- 
s' rvient  to  the  good  of  man  r  To  tin  pure  all  tilings 
art  pun — even  food  of  every  description.      And  does 

not  Bpasmon  Food  especially  itrengthen  Man — and 

help  him  the  gladli<  r  on  his  way'  Should  we  not 
hold  it  s.u-red?  The  Body  i^  the  Temple  of  the  Soul, 
and  it  is  a  privilege  to  a  rve  it.  When  one  comes  to 
think,  this  i>  pun  r  ieT?ice  than  the  en-ation  of  an  art 

[  M6  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

that  gratifies  oneself.  Then,  the  more  I  ponder,  the 
clearlier  it  is  borne  in  upon  me  that  Art  is  a  jealous 
mistress  and  wishes  me  to  toil  for  Her  alone,  without 
any  thought  of  a  public.  So  will  I  do.  I  will  write  for 
Art  and  Myself  only,  except  as  regards  my  Song:  that 
shall  be  for  the  Strength  of  the  World.  For  I  will 
sing  of  Spasmon  and  all  that  it  will  do  towards  making 
a  newer  and  a  better  generation.  The  salary  is  £120 
a  year — and  travelling  abroad  would  largely  develop 
my  Ego.    But  money  is  only  a  symbol. 

Friday  morning. — This  came  to  me  last  night,  in 
the  silent  watches : — 

TO    THE    CHANGE    IN    MYSELF. 
(At  the  Parting  of  the  Ways.) 

I.  who  now  and  ever,  lived  for  Art's  sake, 
Shall  I  hold  this  changeless  as  the  Best? 

Nay.  but  I  will  rather  live  for  Heart's  sake; 
Strive  afresh,  nor  stop  to  take  my  rest 

Even  Food  is  holy  when  prepared 

Through  long  vigils  for  the  Love  of  Men. 

Nought  there  is  that's  coarse  and  nought  that's  arid — 
Body's  Soul,  Soul's  Body,  now  as  then. 

[267] 


THE    WOODHOrSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

I  httfC  applied  for  the  post  in  the-  Spasmon  Depot 
and   have   just    heen   accepted   by    telegram.      I    enter 

on  my  New  Path  next  Tlmrtdaj. 

^pffl  80f*, — Thil  il  an  inward  and  not  an  outward 
Journal,  and  SO  I  will  not  here  note  any  of  the  sordid 
details  that  are  hound  to  occur  in  a  Pmfi  — ional 
Woman's  day.  Actions  are  only  symbols,  and  it 
Million  to  say  that  the  first  day  of  my  D£l  can  I  r  ffftl 
in  twrv  way  Successful  and  hmeficent.  I  am  now 
going  to  create  my  "Hymn  of  Spasmon."  What  mat- 
ten  it  that  it  will  be  posted  on  street  walls  in  hlue 
letters?  Is  it  not  rather  good  that  true  Vers*  and 
true  Nourishment  should  go  hand  in  hand  and  be  sown 
broadcast  through  the  land?  For  advertisements  are 
also  only  symbols. 

Fr'uhui,  Map  lsf. — The  strangest,  sweetest  thing 
has     happen*  d.      To-day,    at    the    Superintendent's 

request,  I  was  going  through  the  letters  that  had  COOM 
bj  the  morning'-  post,  when  I  happed  upon  the  fol- 
lowing note  : — 

I  W8  1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

April  30th,  1903. 
To  the  Spasmon  Depot,  Regent  Street. 

I  am  informed  by  Lady  Louisa  Fitzwigan  that  she 
has  been  for  some  years  a  customer  of  yours,  and  that 
your  Spasmon  Powder  (though  by  no  means  so  good 
as  that  sold  in  Berlin)  is  less  adulterated  than  any 
other  which  she  can  obtain  in  London.  On  the 
strength  of  this  recommendation,  I  am  inclined  to  give 
you  a  trial.  My  case  is  a  very  peculiar  one,  and  the 
powder,  if  it  is  to  be  of  any  use  to  me,  must  be  delivered 
at  4  a.m.  every  morning,  and  there  are  several  other 
details  which  will  need  attention.  Before  giving  you 
an  order,  I  should  wish  to  satisfy  myself,  by  personal 
inspection,  that  your  shop  is  in  good  sanitary  condi- 
tion, as  I  am  told  that  Spasmon  Powder  is  an  idoneous 
vehicle  of  noxious  germs.  I  shall  therefore  call  at 
noon  to-morrow,  when  I  beg  that  your  Manager,  or 
some  other  responsible  agent,  may  be  in  readiness  to 
receive  me.  — Yours,  etc., 

Algernon  Wentwoeth-Woodhouse. 

I  had  hardly  finished  it  when  the  door  turned  on  its 

[269] 


THE  WOODHOUSE  CORRESPONDENCE 

hinges;  I  lifted  my  ejes,  and  1><  fore  me  was — Alger- 
non   Woodhou-. ■!    pah  r,   old<  r,    >;uMrr,    and    \  i-t    n. 

ipbitntJ  than  of  old.    When  he  i  gW  of  me, 

be  itood  M  one  transfixed.      I   could  see  the  itnigj 
that  m  nt  on  within  him.     He  gave  me  on*    nrift,  ; 

swept    glanc< —  a     glance     in     which     Love     and 
B enunciation  wrestled  together — and  then  he  fltd-     I 
can  QM  no  other  word.     It  seemed  as  if  he  knew  that 
hil  only  course  was  flight — that,  given  a  moment  DM 
be  umild  have  succumbed.      Strong  and  noble  to  the 

attennoft  ferge,  iroald  I  have  liim  different?     Par 

from  it.  I  have  had  inv  BOpreme  inoincnt.  That 
instant'l  glance  was  charged  with  revelation;  it  laid 
more  than  ten  years  of  intercourse.  For  if  it  was 
passionate,  it  was  also  sad.  He  looks  shachlt'd — 
irreTOcablj  >hackled.  Ai  I  gazed  at  him,  I  could  not 
help  remembering  Wagner**  Wbtan  between  Pricks 
and  Freia.  He  has  chosen  Fricka.  II-  bai  renour. 
PreML  .  .  .  And  vet  lie  has  !•  ft  me  ■  pi  rfi  cfl  memory, 

and  mv  last  thought  of  him  shall  be  Song.      I*    -hall 
my  r<  cord  of  an   Ideal,  and  I  will  call  it 
mv  "Song  of  Pursuit*" 

I  «70  | 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

TO  ONE  WHO  FLEES  FROM  ME. 

Dost  thou  flee,  my  Dearest — 

Run  from  Me? 
Yet  this  Love  thou  fearest 
(Wheresoe'er  thou  steerest), 
Is   to   be. 

Vain  the  Space  thou  clearest : 

Soul  is  free. 
Farthest,  I  am  nearest ; 
When  thou  disappearest — 
After  thee ! 

Though  the  world  eschew  thee, 

— Thee,  my  Friend — 
I  shall  still  pursue  thee, 
Chase  thee,  and  imbue  thee 
Till  the  End. 

O'er  Life's  hill  and  hollow, 

By  Life's  shore. 
Fleeter  than   Apollo, 
I  will  follow,  follow 
Evermore. 

Dauntless    (I    foretold   thee) 

Beats  my  heart, 
Till  at  last  I  hold  thee, 
Catch  thee  and  enfold  thee 
Ne'er  to  part. 

[271] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

The  Hall,  Feversham-sur-Strand, 
May  14th,   1903. 

DEAR  MR.   PERKINS,— The  last  time  I 
wrote  to  you  it  was  to  ask  your  advice  on 
a  delicate  matter  affecting  my  personal 
happiness.     You  will  pardon  me  if  I  say 
that  the  advice  which  I  received  from  you,  besides 
showing  little  acquaintance  with  the  usages  of  good 
society,  was  even  ludicrously  inadequate. 

Now,  therefore,  I  do  not  ask  advice.  This  letter  is 
intended  to  inform  you  of  certain  facts,  and  to  give 
you  certain  instructions  arising  out  of  those  facts. 
The  facts  themselves  are  sufficiently  startling.  Briefly 
stated,  they  amount  to  this.  /  have  narrowly  escaped 
the  most  terrible  fate  imaginable.  Mrs.  Woodhouse 
has  gone  very  near  to  poisoning  me.     Whether  the 

[275] 


THE    HTOODHOUSE    I  ORRESPONDEN4  E 

calamitous   act    u:is    due   to   any    sinUtcr   motive,   is   a 

question  irhicb  I  must  leave  to  Mr-.  Woodhoose  and 

an  All  -01  »  ing  PoW<  r.     I  cannot  disctm  it  with  a  Solici- 
tor.   If  not  prearranged,  the 

on  Mr-.  \\'<>o(1Iioum\  part,  not  culpable  only,  but 
actually  criminal. 

The  circuni>tanc<s  moil  DC  briefly  narrat.  d. 

Vou  "ill  recall  that  in  my  last  letter  I  told  yon  that 

the    discomfort    (partly    rheumatic    and    partly    gouty 

in   its  origin)   which   I   habitually   suffer  had  been 
ggrayated  by  the  cold  ireather  of  April.    Ai 

tla-   tpring  advanced   it   did   not   diminish,  but    rather 

increased     Holding  strongly  that  to  obtain  the  very 

I  DM  dical  aid  i-  a  duty  the  neglect  of  which  is  tanta- 
mount  to  suicide,   I    did   not    hesitate   to  till   the   Local 

Practitioner  that  I  was  dissatisfied  with  his  treatment, 

and  desired  him  to  arrant  for  a  con-ultation  with  Sir 
William  Broulbmt.  The  consultation  took  plao  yet- 
terdaj.      I    need    not    trouble    vou    with    the   details   of 

Willi  im's  diagnosis  and  prognosis.    It  is  enough 
to  say  that  they  irere  more  satisfactory  than  I  had 

[  «T6  1 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

ventured  to  hope.  He  returned  to  London  after 
luncheon,  leaving  two  prescriptions — the  one  for  an 
effervescing  mixture,  the  other  for  a  liniment.  These 
were  made  up  by  the  best  chemist  in  the  neighbouring 
town,  and  brought  to  my  room  at  bedtime.  I  retired 
to  rest  at  my  usual  hour,  and  soon  summoned  Mrs. 
Woodhouse  from  the  adjacent  dressing-room  to 
arrange  my  hot-water  bottles,  air-cushion,  and  hop- 
pillow.  These  preliminaries  discharged,  Mrs.  Wood- 
house  brought  a  tumbler  containing  an  eighth  part  of 
the  mixture  in  a  wineglassful  of  water.  I  drank  it, 
and  returned  the  glass  to  Mrs.  Woodhouse,  remarking 
on  the  inefficiency  of  country  chemists,  for  the  mixture 
did  not  effervesce,  and  I  could  not  detect  the  taste  of 
salicine,  which  figured  largely  in  the  prescription. 
Stepping  back  from  the  bedside,  Mrs.  Woodhouse  held 
the  bottle  to  the  light,  and  then  exclaimed,  in  a  tone 
which  froze  my  blood,  "My  love,  Vve  given  you  the 
liniment!" 

Should  my  life  be  protracted  to  my  hundredth  year, 
I  shall  never  forget  the  agony  of  that  moment.     My 

[277] 


THE    RTOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

i  brought  Barnes,  who,  with  mwiiiim  imIsMi  prompts 
tode,  ien1  off  mm  of  the  footmen  on  ■  bicycle  to  fetch 

the  doctor  arid  the  .stomach-pump.     M<  anwhile  H  II 

himself  rigorouslj  plied  dm  with  salad-oil.  -il t ,  mus- 
tard, and  warm  water,  while  my  ho  per  tickled 
tin    bach   of  my   throat   with   a    feather.      During   thi> 

frightful  crisii  Mr-.  Woodhouse,  intti  id  of  attempt- 
ing to  rend  r  ace,  itood  Bringing  her  bandi  and 

[aiming,  with  what   I  will  hop  not  simulated 

n  ss,  "I  have  killed  my  husband  !'" 

M-  anwhile  tin    doctor  arrivt  d,  and  you  nmv  roi. 

turc  my  reft  t'  when  he  informed  me  thai  the  principal 

ingredient  in  the  liniment  nras  not,  m  I  had  feared, 

laudanum,  hut   map;  and  that  an  extraordinary  erup- 
tion  of  colour- d   bubbles,  which   had  MfflSfd   DM 
alarm,  tfSJ  due  to  this  comparatively  innOCUOUl 
H  11  in^r  nnw  rallied  from  the  -hock,  I  collected  all  my 

moral  force  (which  I  beliefs  Li  not  inconsiderable), 
and  ord  r-  d  Mr-.  Woodhouse  to  1-  a\ e  the  house  p  I 
me  hid  m  nearlj  rendered  desolate.     She  i 

that   in   my   voice   and   i  ye   which   could   not    be  trilled 

[  *ra  J 


THE    WOODHOUSE    CORRESPONDENCE 

with,  and  quitted  my  roof  without  another  word.  She 
is  now  staying  at  the  Rectory,  pending  those  legal 
arrangements  which  it  will  be  your  business  to  make. 
I  can  hardly  suppose  that  the  law  will  require  an 
injured  husband  to  make  any  considerable  allowance 
to  a  wife  whose  misconduct  has  so  marly  cosi  him  his 
life;  but  that  is  a  matter  which  I  must  Leave  to  you, 
only  begging  you  to  do  all  in  your  power  to  reduce 
that  tax  on  my  resources  to  a  minimum. 

This  essential  point  secured,  you  will  kindly  notify 
to  the  public  that  this  place  is  to  let  on  a  long  lea-<  ; 
for  the  associations  connected  with  it  are  too  painful 
to  permit  of  my  living  here  again.  Henceforward  I 
intend  to  reside  mainly  in  Portland  Place,  removing  to 
Bournemouth  during  the  prevalence  of  fog^ :  and  to 
set  myself  entirely  free  from  the  entanglements  of 
domestic  and  family  life.  Those  entanglements,  as 
I  have  found  by  much  experience,  are  utterly  incom- 
patible with  that  care  for  my  health  which  I  increas- 
ingly feel  to  be  my  primary  duty.  After  all,  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that,  in  spite  of  many   functional 

[279] 


THE    WOODHOUSE   CORRESPONDENCE 

ublcs,   my    constitution   is   sound.      Win  n    I    reflect 
that    BBJ    father,   though   gouty    and   dyspeptic,    lived 

to    DC    eighty  •eVCn1    and    that    inv    grandfather,    noto- 

ted  to  the  phniiim  of  tin-  table,  was 
choked  \>\  ■  fish-bone  in  hi>  ninetj-third  year,  I  feel 
that,  alter  ■  rtonnj  day,  ■  bright,  and  even  ■  pro- 
longed, evening  maj  yd  (with  doe  care)  be  in  itore 

for   inc.  —  Ybtm    faithfully. 

Air.  I  KMiN     WKNTWORTH-WoODHOrSE. 

T.  Pfrkin>    I 

Gray's  Inn  Square. 


THE     END 


[  180  ] 


EPILOGUE 

THE   foregoing   Correspondence    (which   ap- 
peared originally  in  The  Pilot)   i>  n  pro- 
duced at  the  request  of  many  who  recog- 
nise  in   Mr.    Woodhouse   a  Friend  and  a 
Brother,  and  by  the  kind  permission  of  Mr.  U.   C 
Lathbury. 


[  2S1  1 


THIS  BOOK  I»  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

TH,S  BOOK  ON  THE  a/"'^"  T°  """"N 
W.LL  ,NC»wt  xo  so  CE^O  ^  ""^ 
DAY  AND  TO  «100  OM  J.  NTHEF°URTH 
OVERDUE  °N     ™E     SEVENTH     OAY 

JULTT1934 


1 


<A* 


f+  4r 


nut**'        /' 


f.G71  i  ■> 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


